SEVEN  ANGELS  OF 
THE    RENASCENCE 


Franz  Hanfstaengl 


SEVEN  ANGELS  OF 
THE  RENASCENCE 


THE   STORY  OF  ART 
FROM   CIMABUE  TO  CLAUDE 

BY 

SIR   WYKE    BAYLISS,    K.B.,    F.S.A. 

PRESIDENT  OF  THE  ROYAL  SOCIETY  OF  BRITISH  ARTISTS 

AUTHOR  OF   "THE  LIKENESS  OF  CHRIST  REX  REGUM"  "FIVE  GREAT 

PAINTERS  OF  THE  VICTORIAN   ERA"  &c..   &c. 


>*»*••••      •»*•'••'•••' 

Life  is  Light,  and  is  not  to  be 
measured  by  Time. 

THE  SECOND  ANGEL. 


NEW  YORK:  JAMES  POTT  6-  COMPANY 
LONDON  :    SIR  ISAAC  PITMAN  &  SONS,  LTD. 
1905 


PREFACE 


I  TAKE  the  word  Angel  in  its  simplest  mean- 
ing. I  might  have  translated  it  into  English, 
but  that  was  unnecessary — everybody  knows  that 
it  means  Messenger.  I  might  have  said  the  Seven 
Daemons — and  if  my  subject  had  been  Classic  Art, 
that  would  perhaps  have  expressed  the  thing  more 
perfectly.  I  might  have  said  the  Zeit-geist,  but 
that  would  have  required  explanation.  The  word 
Angel,  however,  is  a  common  word,  which  cannot 
be  misunderstood. 

Again,  with  regard  to  the  Renascence.  The 
Renascence  is  that  great  revival  of  Art  which 
culminated  in  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centu- 
ries. It  had  its  beginning  in  the  thirteenth,  and 
lapsed  altogether  in  the  seventeenth.  The  First 
of  the  Seven  Angels  came  with  the  Pre-Raphael- 
ites  of  the  Awakening,  the  Seventh  with  the 
Naturalists  of  the  Decadence.  Of  Cimabue  and 
and  Claude  I  shall  have  a  word  to  say,  but  my 

v 


255096 


PREFACE 

/  main  purpose  lies  with  the  five  great  painters  who, 
living  and  working  together,  bore  the  stress  and 
strain  of  the  day. 

Each  of  these  men  brought  to  the  service  of  Art 
his  own  special  and  divine  gift.  Da  Vinci  irra- 
diated the  studio  with  the  light  of  the  intellectual 
life.  Michael  Angelo  came  with  the  message,  di- 
rect from  heaven,  that  men  should  be  as  the  gods. 
Titian  came  with  the  revelation  from  Olympus 
that  the  gods  are  as  men.  By  this  time  some  of 
our  lamps  were  flaring  in  the  darkness,  some  were 
flickering  and  going  out.  Then  Raphael  showed 
us  how  to  keep  them  trimmed,  and  to  see  with 
clearer  eyes.  Last  of  all  Correggio  discovered  how 
not  until  the  sixth  day  was  the  world  finished, 
when  God  brought  Eve  into  Paradise. 

The  Art  of  the  Renascence,  like  that  of  ancient 
Greece,  was  in  its  inception,  and  in  its  chief  uses, 
essentially  religious  Art.  It  was  subjected  to  the 
strain  of  three  forces  :  (1)  The  orthodox  tradition 
of  the  stalwarts  of  the  Catholic  Church— (2)  the 
passionate  individualism  of  the  disciples  of  Savon- 
arola and  Luther ;  and  (3)  the  recoil  towards 
Paganism  of  those  who  rejected  the  old  faith 
without  making  peace  with  the  new.  Of  each  of 
these  forces  I  shall  take  account.  But  the  Art  of 
the  Renascence  was  primarily  the  re-incarnation 
of  the  Story  of  the  Divine  Life,  and  in  this  the 

vi 


PREFACE 

supreme  interest  lies  in  the  figure  of  Christ.  The 
Renascence  was  coincident  with  the  Reformation 
—Raphael  and  Luther  were  born  in  the  same  year. 
Thinking  of  the  fierce  struggle  which  seemed  to 
wrap  the  world  in  flames  one  may  well  ask  what 
became  of  the  Likeness  ?  It  became  the  one 
visible  bond  of  union  between  Christians.  Fra 
Angelico,  the  devout  Catholic,  painted  it  kneeling 
upon  his  knees  in  his  convent  at  Fiesole.  Albert 
Durer,  the  sturdiest  of  sturdy  Reformers,  engraved 
it  for  the  pages  of  his  Protestant  Bible.  Of  all  the 
treasures  we  have  inherited  from  the  time  of  the 
Apostles,  the  Likeness  of  Christ  is  the  only  one 
about  which  the  Church  of  Christ  has  never  quar- 
relled. 

I  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  remarkable  than 
this.  Twice  in  the  history  of  Christianity  has  the 
Church  been  torn  asunder.  For  the  same  thing 
occurred  during  the  Dark  Ages  which  preceded  the 
Awakening.  The  Church  divided.  Rome  and 
Byzantium  stood  apart — denouncing,  fighting, 
excommunicating  each  other.  Popes  and  Patri- 
archs could  not  be  reconciled.  But  the  painters 
were  not  divided.  The  Greek  and  Latin  icons  are 
the  same.  There  is  a  quaint  legend  that  the  rose 
of  Palestine  flowers  only  in  the  Holy  Land,  and 
on  the  day  when  Christ  was  born.  But  the  Rose 
of  the  Paradise  of  Art  unfolds  its  blossoms  wher- 
ever there  is  a  painter  in  Christendom. 

vii 


PREFACE 

In  Rex  Regum  I  have  shown  that  this  Likeness 
is  authentic,  and  I  have  traced  it  century  by 
century  from  the  days  of  the  Apostles.  I  refer  to 
it  now,  not  to  cover  the  same  ground — for  The 
Seven  Angels  of  the  Renascence  begins  where 
The  Likeness  of  Christ  Rex  Regum  leaves  off — 
but  because  if  we  would  understand  the  use  that 
has  been  made  of  the  Likeness  by  the  great  mas- 
ters, it  is  necessary  that  we  should  know  what  it 
is,  and  from  whence  they  derived  it.  I  have  there- 
fore included  in  this  volume  a  few  typical  illustra- 
tions from  the  pages  of  Rex  Regum.  It  will  be 
seen  that  the  Christ  of  the  Seven  Angels  is  always 
the  same  Christ. 

I  have  been  engaged  upon  this  book  for  many 
years.  It  is  impossible  to  see  with  one's  own  eyes, 
and  to  form  one's  own  judgment  of  the  works  of 
the  Masters,  scattered  as  they  are  through  Italy 
and  Germany  and  France,  without  the  expenditure 
of  much  time  and  travel.  Some  fragments  of  the 
book  have  appeared  as  articles  or  reviews — in  The 
Contemporary,  The  National  Review,  Literature,  The 
Guardian,  The  New  York  Critic,  and  other  English 
and  American  Journals — some  have  formed  the 
substance  of  lectures  at  the  Royal  Institution. 

The  illustrations  are  not  intended  to  supersede 
actual  knowledge  of  the  paintings.  They  serve  to 
re-vivify  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  splendours  he 

viii 


PREFACE 

may  have  already  seen,  or  to  forecast  splendours 
which  await  him  when  he  shall  stand  face  to  face 
with  the  originals.  Many  of  these  paintings  are 
so  colossal  in  size,  and  the  pages  of  an  octavo 
volume  are  so  small,  that  I  have  found  it  necessary 
in  some  instances  to  sacrifice  the  loveliness  of  the 
detail  for  the  sake  of  the  greatness  of  the  design, 
or  to  sacrifice  the  design  for  the  sake  of  some 
particular  figure.  The  St.  Cecilia  and  the  Madonna 
di  San  Sisto  are  but  fragments  of  pictures ;  the 
School  of  Athens  and  the  Cenacolo  are  but  shadows 
of  a  shade.  I  justify  them  only  because,  so  far  as 
they  go  they  are  true  shadows. 

Through  the  courtesy  of  the  Conservatori  of  the 
Museums  of  Milan,  and  Florence,  and  Rome,  as 
well  as  of  the  British  Museum  and  the  National 
Gallery,  I  have  been  able  to  add  to  the  portraits 
of  the  Painters  and  Poets— with  the  exception  of 
Cimabue  and  Dante — authentic  facsimiles  of  their 
autographs.  Of  Dante  and  Cimabue,  however,  it 
must  be  remembered  that,  like  Aurora,  they  were 
very  early  risers.  They  came  with  the  Awakening 
— before  the  House  was  swept,  or  the  Studio  set  in 
order.  Any  manuscripts  they  may  have  left  appear 
to  have  been  used — as  Boccaccio's  certainly  were 
used — for  lighting  the  fires.  Italy's  housekeeping, 
nevertheless,  does  not  compare  unfavourably  with 
our  own,  when  we  consider  how  little  remains  to  us 
of  the  handwriting  of  Shakespeare. 

ix 


PREFACE 

One  word  more.  The  little  outlines  which  form 
the  initial  letters  of  the  seven  chapters  are  not  of 
sufficient  importance  to  be  catalogued  in  the  table 
of  contents.  They  are  to  be  regarded  as  only  notes 
in  the  margin  of  my  MS.  made  with  pencil  instead 
of  pen.  The  first  is  one  of  the  Basilicas  of  Rome, 
St.  Prassede,  where  Art  slept  its  long  sleep.  The 
second  is  the  Cathedral  of  Milan,  from  which  Da 
Vinci  received  his  first  impressions  of  Art.  The 
third  is  Santa  Croce,  of  Florence,  where  Michael 
Angelo  sleeps  now.  The  fourth  is  St.  Mark's, 
Venice,  enriched  with  mosaics  designed  by  Titian. 
The  fifth  is  St.  Peter's,  Rome,  of  which  Raphael 
was  for  a  time  architect  and  where  his  painting 
of  the  Transfiguration  still  hangs.  The  sixth  is 
the  Duomo,  of  Parma — the  Parma  of  Correggio. 
The  seventh — Westminster  Abbey — though  so  far 
away  from  the  studios  of  the  great  painters,  is  per- 
haps more  closely  identified  with  the  Italian  Renas- 
cence of  Art  than  any  of  the  churches  of  Italy. 
(For  Westminster  Abbey  is  the  Cathedral  of  the 
Printing  Press. 


x 


CONTENTS 


I.    THE  AWAKENING            ...         3 

II.     LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 35 

III.  MICHAEL  ANGELO  BUONARROTI  ...  65 

IV.  TITIAN  VICELLI 101 

V.]  RAPHAEL  SANZIO  D'URBINO            ...  143 

VI.  ANTONIO  ALLEGRI  DA  CORREGGIO  177 

VII.  ANNO  DOMINI                                          ...  209 


XI 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING  PAGE 

SAINT  CECILIA.  By  Raphael.  From  a  painting  in 
the  Pinakoteck,  Munich  . .  . .  . .  Frontispiece 

CIMABUE.  By  Simon  Memmi.  From  a  fresco  in 
Santa  Maria  Novella,  Florence  . .  . .  . .  2 

THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  CATACOMBS.  Fresco  in  the  Cata- 
comb of  St.  Callisto.  From  "  Rex  Regum  "  . .  4 

DANTE,  THE  POET  OF  THE  AWAKENING.  From  a  fresco 
by  Raphael  in  the  Vatican 8 

THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  VERONICAS.    Sudarium  of  San 

Silvestro,  Rome.     From  "  Rex  Regum  "      . .         . .         12 

THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  BASILICAS.  Mosaic  in  the  Church 
of  St.  Appollinare  Nuova,  Ravenna.  From  Farrer's 
"  Christ  in  Art "  24 

THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  AWAKENING.     From  a  painting  by 

Fra  Angelico  in  St.  Mark's,  Florence  . .         . .         30 

LEONARDO  DA  VINCI.  From  a  painting  in  the  Gallery 
of  the  Uffizi,  Florence 34 

THE  Two  ANGELS.     By  Leonardo  Da  Vinci.     From  a 

painting  in  the  Accademia,  Florence . .         . .         . .         48 

xii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

THE  CHRIST  OF  DA  VINCI.    Drawing  in  the  Accademia, 

Milan.     From  "  Rex  Regum "  52 

THE  LAST  SUPPER.  By  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  From  the 
painting  in  the  Refectory  of  the  Convent  of  St.  Maria 
delle  Grazie,  Milan  54 

THE  VIRGIN  AND  HER  MOTHER,  WITH  THE  INFANT 
SAVIOUR  AND  ST.  JOHN.  By  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 
From  a  drawing  in  the  possession  of  the  Royal 
Academy..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  58 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  BUONARROTI.     From  the  portrait  by 

himself  in  the  Gallery  of  the  Uffizi     . .         . .         . .         64 

HOLY  FAMILY.  By  Michael  Angelo.  From  the  paint- 
ing in  the  Gallery  of  the  Uffizi ..  ..  ..  ..  70 

THE  LYBIAN  SIBYL.     By  Michael  Angelo.     From  the 

fresco  in  the  Sis  tine  Chapel     . .         . .         . .         . .         76 

THE  CREATION  OF  MAN.     From  the  fresco  by  Michael 

Angelo  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  . .         . .         . .         . .         80 

THE  DIES  IR&.  By  Michael  Angelo.  From  the  fresco 
in  the  Sistine  Chapel  . .  . .  . .  . .  . .  82 

THE  CHRIST  OF  MICHAEL  ANGELO.     From  the  painting 

in  the  National  Gallery . .         . .         . .         . .         . .         84 

TITIAN  VECELLI.     From  the  painting  in  the  Royal 

Gallery,  Berlin  . .         . .         . .         . .         . .         . .       100 

FLORA.     By  Titian.     From  the  painting  in  the  Gallery 

of  the  Uffizi,  Florence  ..         ..         ..         ..         ..       no 

xiii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

CUPID  EQUIPPED.     From  the  painting  by  Titian  in  the 
Borghese  Gallery,  Rome          ..         ..         ..         ..       118 

DIONYSUS.     By  Titian.     From  the  painting  of  Bacchus 

and  Ariadne  in  the  National  Gallery. .         . .         . .       124 

ARIOSTO,  THE  POET  OF  THE  RENASCENCE.    By  Titian. 
From  the  painting  in  the  National  Gallery. .         . .       128 

THE  CHRIST  OF  TITIAN.     From  the  painting  of  The 

Tribute  Money,  in  the  Royal  Gallery,  Berlin. .         ..       134 

RAPHAEL  D'URBINO.     From  the  painting  by  himself 
in  the  Pitti  Palace,  Florence 142 

PARNASSUS.     By  Raphael.     From  the  fresco  in  the 
Vatican 148 

THE  CHRIST  OF  RAPHAEL.     From  the  painting  of  The 
Transfiguration.  St.  Peter's,  Rome 150 

THE  MADONNA  DI  SAN  SISTO.     By  Raphael.    From 

the  painting  in  the  Royal  Gallery,  Dresden. .         . .       158 

THE  SCHOOL  OF  ATHENS.    By  Raphael.    From  the 

fresco  in  the  Vatican  . .         . .         . .         . .         . .       168 

ANTONIO  ALLEGRI  DA  CORREGGIO.     From  a  painting 

in  the  Sacristy  of  Parma  Cathedral  ..         ..       176 

THE  HOLY  FAMILY.    By  Correggio.    From  the  painting 

in  the  National  Gallery. .         ..         ..         ..         ..       188 

THE  CHRIST  OF  CORREGGIO.     From  the  "  Ecce  Homo  " 

in  the  National  Gallery 190 

xiv 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

AMORETTI.     By   Correggio.     From   the    Refectory   of 
the  Convent  of  San  Paolo,  Parma 194 

THE  HOLY  NIGHT.     By  Correggio.     From  the  painting 

in  the  Royal  Gallery,  Dresden 19$ 

CLAUDE    LORRAINE.     From  the  Musee  Royale,  Paris         208 

TASSO.    THE  POET  OF  THE  DECADENCE.     From  an  old 

engraving  by  Raphael  Morghen         214 

AURORA.     By  Guido  Reni.     From  the  painting  in  the 

Rospigliosi  Palace,  Rome       . .         . .         . .         . .       216 

SUNRISE.     By  Claude  Lorraine.     From  the  painting 

in  the  National  Gallery ..         ..         ..         ..         ..       222 

SHAKESPEARE.     From  the  painting  in  the  National 

Portrait  Gallery ..         ..         ..         ..         ..         ..       230 

THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  DECADENCE.     From  a  painting  by 

Velasquez,  in  the  Museum  of  the  Prado,  Madrid   . .       236 


XV 


THE  PRINCESS.     7s  that  you,  my  Cimabue  ? 
CIMABUE.     Yes,  it  is  I — and  others  are  coming. 
THE  PRINCESS.    /  have  waited  long. 

(ENTER  A  MESSENGER.) 
MESSENGER.    Giotto  is  at  the  gate. 


PLATE    II.       CIMABUE 


FROM  THE  FRESCO  BY  SIMON  MEMMI  IN 
THE  CHURCH  OF  SANTA  MARIA  NOVELLA 


THE    AWAKENING 


HAVE  NAMED  IT 
the  Awakening  be- 
cause Art  had  been 
asleep.  Asleep,  not 
dead— Art  does  not 
die.  It  is  the  artist 
who  dies — and  his 
works  often  perish 
with  him.  Nations 
die  and  are  forgot- 
ten; but  Art — like 
the  Princess  in  the  Story  of  the  Briar  Rose — only 
sleeps.  Art  fell  asleep  when  Rome,  having  spent 
the  first  three  centuries  of  the  Christian  era — from 
Augustus,  that  is,  to  Constantine — in  portrait 
painting,  became  tired  of  it,  and  found  nothing 
more  in  her  annals  worth  recording.  And  then,  as 


THE  AWAKENING 

the  Romans  had  ravaged  Greece,  so  the  Goths 
ravaged  Rome.  What  could  Art  do  better  in  the 
darkness  than  go  to  sleep  ? 

It  was  in  the  fourth  century  that  the  palette  of 
the  painter  was  laid  aside  for  the  smelting-pot  of 
the  mosaic- worker,  and  the  counting  began.  To 
design  a  picture  with  a  great  sweep  of  the  brush 
is  one  thing — to  build  it  up  with  tesserae  of  gold  or 
glass  is  a  very  different  matter.  One,  two,  three, 
of  yellow — one,  two,  three,  four,  of  crimson — one, 
two,  three,  four,  five,  of  blue,  until  you  come  to  the 
tip  of  the  longest  pen-feather  of  the  angel's  wing— 
which  is  to  be  of  rosy  pink,  and  six  tesserae  above 
the  centre  of  the  aureole  of  the  seventh  angel.  I 
know  not  the  nature  of  the  spell  by  which  the 
cruel  fairy  closed  the  eyes  of  the  Princess — perhaps 
the  Princess  nodded  over  her  embroidery — but  I 
am  sure  that  too  much  counting,  and  too  little 
freedom  of  the  brush,  are  sufficient  to  explain  the 
slumber  into  which  Art  fell. 

At  any  rate,  whatever  may  have  been  the  cause, 
Art,  like  the  Princess,  slept.  Yes — and  dreamed. 
She  dreamed  of  the  old  days  of  portraiture,  when 
the  new  religion  came  to  Rome,  and  men  turned 
from  the  imaginary  faces  of  the  Muses  and  Apollo, 
to  the  real  faces  of  Christ  and  the  Apostles.  She 
dreamed  of  the  dark  corridors  of  the  catacombs, 
made  glorious,  if  only  you  carried  a  lighted  taper 
in  your  hand,  by  frescoes  of  the  great  Leader  who 

4 


PLATE    III.       THE    CHRIST    OF    THE    CATACOMBS 


FROM  A  FRESCO  IN  THE 
CATACOMB   OF  S.  CALLISTO 


DREAMING  OF  CHRIST 

had  gone  away  for  a  little  while  but  had  promised 
to  come  again  in  like  form.  She  dreamed  of  the 
still  darker  graves,  with  the  Likeness  laid  upon 
the  faces  of  the  dead.  She  dreamed  of  the  building 
of  the  great  basilicas,  with  triumphal  arches  on 
which  were  emblazoned  the  same  Likeness,  which 
had  been  hidden  so  long  in  the  catacombs,  but  had 
now  become  the  most  treasured  possession  of 
Christendom,  and  the  one  theme  of  Art.  She 
dreamed  of  the  illuminated  manuscripts  of  the 
sacred  books,  enriched  with  visions  of  angels — 

with  aureoles  like  golden  quoits 
Pitched  home — 

as  Robert  Browning  puts  it.  She  forgot  in  her 
dreams  that  quoits  are  more  antient  than  aureoles, 
that  they  were  not  made  of  gold,  that  they  were 
not  worn  by  the  Greeks  upon  the  head,  but  were 
flung  with  the  hand — as  we  may  see  now  in  the 
Discobolus  at  the  British  Museum.  Nevertheless, 
whatever  Art  remembered,  or  forgot,  or  dreamed, 
one  thing  is  certain — like  the  Princess  in  the  Fairy 
Book  she  slept. 

Until  the  Awakening.  And  it  was  a  long  time 
to  sleep.  The  Prince  came  in  the  thirteenth 
century — and  we  call  him  Cimabue.  Whether  it 
was  Cimabue  or  Margaritone  who  first  discovered 
the  Princess  I  am  not  sure.  It  was  Margaritone 

5 


THE  AWAKENING 

who  cut  away  the  tangled  briar — the  growth  of  a 
thousand  years  —  with  its  cruel  thorns,  which 
hedged  her  round.  But  it  was  Cimabue  who 
claimed  the  Princess  as  his  bride.  There  she  lay, 
asleep,  in  her  wonderful  beauty,  as  if  she  had  just 
closed  her  eyes.  "  Trembling,  he  approached,  and 
knelt  beside  her.  Some  say  he  kissed  her — but  as 
nobody  saw  it,  and  she  never  told,  we  cannot  be 
quite  sure  of  the  fact.  However,  as  the  end  of  the 
enchantment  had  come,  the  Princess  awakened  at 
once,  and  looking  at  him  with  eyes  of  the  tenderest 
regard,  said  drowsily, — Is  that  you,  my  Cimabue  ? 
I  have  waited  for  you  very  long."  Was  Cimabue 
then  the  First  of  the  Seven  Angels  of  the  Renas- 
cence ?  I  do  not  say  that,  any  more  than  that 
Socrates  was  himself  the  daemon  who,  he  declares, 
led  him  in  the  right  way,  saved  him  from  impiety, 
and  crime,  and  would,  when  he  came  to  die, 
present  him  to  the  Righteous  Judge.  I  say  only 
that  Cimabue  was  present  at  the  Awakening. 

It  is  about  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
A  little  boy  is  lingering  at  the  doors  of  a  church 
in  Florence.  He  ought  to  be  on  his  way  to  school ; 
but  truants  will  be  truants  in  one  century  as  well 
as  in  another.  The  church  is  being  decorated  by  a 
company  of  Greek  artists  who  have  been  brought 
from  Byzantium,  by  the  Governor  of  the  city. 
Every  day  there  is  a  scholar  too  few  in  the  school 

6 


CIMABUE  AND  DANTE 

room — and  one  too  many  in  St.  Maria  Novella. 
But  the  artists  take  kindly  to  the  lad,  and  an 
attachment  springs  up  between  them. 

The  boy's  name  is  Cimabue,  and  he  is  of  a  noble 
family.  His  father  humours  him  in  his  desire,  and 
he  is  placed  with  the  artists  as  their  pupil.  The 
rest  follows.  What  the  mosaic-worker,  Margari- 
tone,  had  begun,  in  breaking  through  the  tram- 
mels of  his  craft  and  painting  upon  canvas,  Cima- 
bue completed  by  using  the  art  of  painting  as  a 
living  language. 

That  is  the  point — the  turning  of  a  dead  lan- 
guage into  a  living.  And  Dante  was,  at  the  very 
same  time,  doing  the  very  same  thing  with  the 
Italian  dialect.  The  world  was  mute.  After  ten 
centuries  of  silence  there  were  none  to  sing,  and 
the  voices  of  the  great  bards  of  Greece  and  Rome 
were  forgotten.  Then  came  the  Divina  Comme- 
dia,  like  a  burst  of  solemn  music  from  a  cathedral 
organ,  rolling  in  mighty  waves  through  transept, 
nave,  and  chancel,  heard  in  the  quiet  chapels, 
reverberating  through  the  vaulted  roof.  Since 
then  many  voices  have  joined  in,  like  the  singing 
of  a  choir,  but  it  was  a  grand  thing  for  this  one 
man  to  wake  the  world  to  listen.  Dante  was 
indeed  the  Poet  of  the  Awakening.  The  name 
Alighieri — a  wing  or,  that  is,  on  a  field  azure,  was 
his  by  inheritance.  But  he  more  than  inherited  it 

7 


THE  AWAKENING 

— he  gave  to  it  a  meaning.  His  life  spelled  out  the 
mystery  of  the  emblazonment.  His  were  the 
wings  of  gold  ;  his  were  the  blue  heavens,  and  his 
flight  such  that  we  who  sometimes  lift  our  eyes  to 
follow  him  are  almost  blinded  as  we  gaze.  Who 
that  has  read  the  Divine  Comedy  can  ever  forget 
Dante's  first  vision  of  his  Beatrice  ?  After  the 
terrors  of  Hell,  the  bitterness  of  Purgatory,  the 
wall  of  fire  through  which  he  will  pass,  because 
she  is  at  the  other  side — 

Saying,  "  Her  eyes  I  seem  to  see  already !  " 
A  voice  that  on  the  other  side  was  singing, 
"  Venite,  benedicti,  patris  mei," 
Sounded  within  a  splendour  which  was  there, 
Such  it  o'ercame  me,  and  I  could  not  look. 

He  is  not,  however,  so  much  overcome  but  that 
he  can  wield  his  terza  rima  as  a  lash  with  which  to 
scourge  the  painters  for  their  ambition.  Cimabue 
and  Giotto  had  been  his  friends,  yet  he  places  them 
in  Purgatory  to  be  punished  for  the  sin  of  pride. 
At  least  he  prepares  a  place  for  them  in  the  First 
Circle,  and  spends  much  sarcasm  on  that  vanity 
of  vanities — the  desire  for  fame.  Had  the  grim 
Florentine  nothing  to  answer  for  on  his  own  ac- 
count ?  If  Cimabue  the  painter  must  expiate 
the  sin  of  striving  for  immortality — "  Being  put  to 
proof  by  the  Old  Adversary  "—  how  shall  Dante 
the  poet  escape,  who  has  so  keen  an  eye  for  the 

8 


Alinari 


PLATE    IV.       DANTE,    THE    POET    OF    THE    AWAKENING 


FROM  A  FRESCO  BY  RAPHAEL  IN 
THE  STANZE  OF  THE  VATICAN 


WITHOUT  MALICE 

Laurel  ?  Perhaps  Art  is  kinder  than  Poetry. 
Perhaps  Giotto  was  more  tender-hearted  than 
Dante.  When  Giotto  painted  Dante  he  did  not 
assign  him  to  the  infernal  regions.  He  placed  him 
in  Paradise,  with  a  palm  branch  in  his  hand. 

It  is  a  curious  thing,  this  disposing  of  each  other's 
immortal  souls  by  poet  and  painter.  But  it  is 
not  in  the  role  of  Judge  that  Dante  shines.  He 
makes  many  mistakes,  which  await  correction  by 
a  court  of  higher  appeal.  But  with  what  high 
aims  and  aspirations — with  what  passion  of  love 
and  life  his  words  must  have  filled  the  studios  of 
the  painters — even  though  he  does  occasionally 
commit  a  friend  or  two  to  the  flames.  He  is  so 
sure  he  is  right — as  sure  as  the  country  parson 
sitting  on  the  Bench  to-day  is  sure,  who  commits 
the  Dissenting  Minister  to  prison  as  a  Passive 
Resister.  There  is  no  malice  in  it.  I  do  not 
attribute  this  apparent  harshness  so  much  to  the 
hardness  of  his  heart  as  to  the  severity  of  his  creed. 
What  could  he  do  ?  He  must  find  Homer  and 
Horace  in  hell.  He  knew  of  nowhere  else  to  look 
for  them — nor  for  Plato  and  Socrates,  nor  for 
Euclid  and  Ptolemy,  nor  for  Orpheus,  or  Hector, 
or  Diogenes,  or  Brutus — who  drave  the  Tarquin 
forth.  But  if  it  must  be  so — if  the  Inferno  is  to 
be  peopled  with  these  mighty  spirits  Dante  takes 
care  that  it  shall  be  comfortable  for  them.  Caesar 

9 


THE  AWAKENING 

in  armour,  with  gerfalcon  eyes  ;  Homer,  the  Poet 
sovereign ;  the  star-gazer ;  the  man  of  triangles — 
he  sees  them  every  one.  They  live  in  a  flood  of 
luminous  glory.  They  are  walking  in  a  meadow  of 
fresh  verdure,  where  stands  a  noble  castle,  seven 
times  defended  with  lofty  walls,  encompassed  by 
a  fair  rivulet.  The  Poet  of  the  Awakening  must 
have  dreamed  pleasant  dreams. 

Margaritone,  Cimabue,  Giotto — slowly  the  roll- 
call  lengthens.  Giotto  was  a  peasant  lad,  when 
in  the  year  1277,  just  two  hundred  years,  that  is, 
before  Titian  was  born — Cimabue  found  him  in  the 
fields,  a  ten-year-old  child,  drawing  one  of  the 
sheep  he  was  tending.  The  great  painter  recog- 
nised the  boy's  genius — it  seemed  like  his  own 
childhood  over  again — and  taking  him  to  Florence 
made  him  his  pupil.  Small,  weak,  deformed,  of 
humble  birth,  yet  if  Cimabue  was  a  prince,  Giotto 
was  a  king  in  the  realms  of  Art.  And  the  realms 
of  Art  to  him  were  very  wide.  He  was  architect 
and  built  the  campanile  of  Florence — Giotto's 
Tower.  He  was  mosaic- worker,  and*  designed  the 
lovely  tympanum  over  the  door  of  the  old  basilica 
of  St.  Peter's,  representing  Christ  appearing  to  His 
disciples  in  the  storm.  The  mosaic  is  still  pre- 
served within  the  vestibule  of  the  new  cathedral. 
Giotto  enriched  the  church  of  St.  Francis  at  Assisi 
with  the  series  of  frescoes  telling  the  story  of  the 

10 


THE  SECOND  SLEEP 

Saint's  life.  Padua  and  Naples,  Milan,  Ravenna, 
Pisa,  and  Lucca,  have  long  been  famous  for  the 
splendour  of  his  works. — while  the  more  recently 
discovered  frescoes  of  the  church  of  Santa  Croce, 
are  counted  amongst  the  finest  of  them  all. 

And  now  a  strange  thing  happens,  of  which  I 
must  be  content  to  give  the  record  without  ven- 
turing upon  an  explanation.  The  Princess  has 
risen  from  her  long  sleep.  The  festivities  have 
begun.  The  art  of  painting  has  revived  in  Italy. 
Whichever  of  the  three  may  have  been  the  bride- 
groom, Margaritone,  Cimabue,  and  Giotto,  have 
danced  together  at  the  wedding. — when  suddenly 
the  stage  is  darkened,  the  dramatis  persona  dis- 
appear, and  Italy  is  left  for  nearly  a  hundred  years 
with  scarcely  an  artist  of  the  first  rank  living  to 
maintain  the  traditions  of  the  Court  of  the  Muses. 
Perhaps  the  Princess  had  gone  away  for  her  honey- 
moon, and  left  Orcagna,  and  Spinello  to  keep 
things  alive  until  her  return. 

Why  did  the  Renascence  thus  delay  its  coming  ? 
Yesterday  I  read  a  little  poem  in  an  evening  news- 
paper— read  it,  and  left  the  paper  in  the  train  by 
which  I  was  travelling.  The  versification  was 
faulty,  some  of  the  lines  seemed  to  halt,  so  that 
the  thing  was  not  worth  preserving.  But  I  recall 
the  loveliness  of  it.  Only  one  voice  is  heard.  It 

ii 


THE  AWAKENING 

is  that  of  a  woman.  She  is  speaking  to  her  lover, 
who  has  delayed — delayed  because  he  loved  her, 
and  desired  to  prove  himself  worthy  of  her  by 
winning  fame,  which  he  would  lay  at  her  feet.  But 
she  has  loved  him  all  the  while,  and  her  cry  is, 
"  Why  have  you  come  so  late  ?  "  She  would  have 
climbed  the  hill  with  him.  She  would  have  shared 
with  him  the  pain  of  the  struggle  as  well  as  the 
glory  of  the  triumph.  Listen  now  to  another  cry. 
The  Christian  is  asking  the  very  same  question— 
of  the  Painter — Why  did  you  come  so  late  ?  We 
might  together  have  won  the  victory — and  have 
slain  the  old  enemy — Superstition.  What  if  the 
Likeness,  instead  of  being  only  a  record  made 
by  Roman  artists,  who  may  not  have  believed 
in  Christ,  or  by  disciples,  faithful  indeed,  but  un- 
skilled in  the  painters'  craft,  had  been  drawn  from 
the  life  by  a  Da  Vinci,  a  Michael  Angelo  or  a 
Raphael  ?  It  is  a  vain  question.  It  is  like  asking 
why  the  blossom  comes  before  the  fruit — why  the 
fruit  waits  for  the  blossom  to  fade. 

If,  however,  we  could  explain  the  first  millen- 
nium of  waiting,  it  still  seems  a  strange  thing  that 
when  the  Awakening  did  come  there  should  have 
come  also  a  second  sleep.  The  fourteenth  century 
is  the  mystery  of  the  Renascence,  and  the  events 
which  mark  it  call  for  careful  study.  It  seemed 
to  have  opened  well  for  the  painter.  Art  had  found 
a  new  language.  Giotto  and  Dante  were  still 

12 


\ 


PLATE  V.       THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  VERONICAS 


FROM  THE  VERONICA  OF 
S.  SILVESTRO,  ROME 


THE  RECORD  OF  THE  CITIES 

living.  Orcagna — "the  little  archangel" — with 
Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  were  soon  to  be  of  the 
company.  Moreover,  a  man  was  born  about  this 
time  who  should  live  to  be  called  the  saviour  of  his 
country.  A  man  of  the  noblest  ambitions,  profi- 
cient in  classic  literature,  with  exalted  conceptions 
of  justice  and  liberty,  splendid  for  his  personal 
beauty  and  his  prowess  in  arms,  gifted  with  a 
voice  that  transformed  his  orations  into  oratorios. 
Rienzi  attempted  to  restore  the  ancient  Republic 
and  the  Pope  was  driven  from  the  Vatican.  But 
Rienzi  was  dragged  down  by  the  nobles  of  the  land 
—he  became  one  of  the  glorious  company  of  the 
assassinated, — and  the  Popes  returned,  to  be  de- 
posed and  assassinated  in  their  turn.  That  is  the 
record  of  the  Eternal  City. 

And  Florence  ?  Well,  the  citizens  of  Florence 
spent  the  century  in  quarrelling  as  to  which  of 
two  German  families — the  Guelphs  or  the  Ghi- 
belines — should  be  their  masters.  That  is  the 
record  of  the  City  of  Flowers. 

And  then  Venice.  The  Venetian  fleet  is  defeated 
by  the  Genoese.  The  Genoese  fleet  is  defeated  by 
the  Venetians.  The  Doge  conspires  against  the  Re- 
public. Dalmatia  and  Istria  are  ceded  to  Austria. 
A  hundred  years  of  conspiracy  and  war.  That  is 
the  record  of  the  Queen  City  of  the  Adriatic. 

How  differently  these  records  will  affect  dif- 
ferent minds.  I  am  concerned  with  them  of  course 

13 


THE  AWAKENING 

only  as  they  affect  Art.  Why  should  the  Renas- 
cence have  delayed  its  coming  ?  Why  should  the 
Princess  have  lingered  so  long  over  her  awaken- 
ing ?  We  are  in  the  fourteenth  century — a 
century  full  of  discord,  and  tumult,  and  war.  But 
if  we  look  forward  to  the  Renascence,  or  back  to 
Hellas,  history  has  the  same  story  to  unfold.  It 
is  not  peace  or  war,  prosperity  or  adversity,  that 
controls  the  rise  and  fall  of  schools  of  Art.  What 
peace  did  Torquemada  bring  to  the  painters  of  the 
fifteenth  century  ?  They  may  have  caught  the 
expression  of  the  faces  of  their  souls  in  purgatory 
from  the  faces  they  had  seen  wreathed  with  flame 
at  the  stake.  Durer  was  the  friend  of  Luther, 
when  he  nailed  his  thesis  to  the  church  door. 
There  were  stirring  times  during  the  life  of  Titian — 
when  Venice  stood  in  arms,  alone,  against  the 
world.  Rome  and  Florence  were  not  without 
their  troubles  in  the  time  of  Michael  Angelo. 
Dante  did  indeed  sigh  for  peace,  but  that  was 
when  his  work  was  done. 

And  Greek  Art.  Had  the  Athenians  peace  while 
Phidias  was  designing  the  friezes  of  the  Parthenon  ? 
During  his  life  there  was — in  Greece — an  earth- 
quake, a  pestilence,  the  revolt  of  two  provinces, 
a  rebellion,  and  thirteen  great  battles — from  the 
defence  of  the  Pass  of  Thermopylae,  to  the  first 
Peloponnesian  war.  And  afterwards  ?  Within 
thirty  years  of  his  death  Athens  itself  was  forced 

14 


IS  IT  PEACE  ? 

by  famine  to  surrender  to  its  enemies,  and  its  walls 
were  razed  to  the  ground.  Is  it  necessary  to 
recount  the  conspiracies,  the  tyrannies,  the  revolu- 
tions, the  bloodshed,  the  disasters,  the  civil  wars, 
that  followed  the  building  of  the  Parthenon,  for 
nearly  three  hundred  years — until  Greece  sub- 
mitted finally  to  Rome  ?  That  period  of  three 
hundred  years  embraced  the  lives  not  only  of 
Phidias,  but  of  Praxiteles,  and  Polycletus,  who  are 
accounted  the  greatest  sculptors  the  world  has 
known.  It  represents  confessedly  the  highest 
period  of  Greek  Art.  The  name  of  Hellas  falls 
pleasantly  on  the  ear — but  had  Hellas  peace  ? 

It  is  not  then  to  Revolution  in  Rome,  or  conspi- 
racy in  Venice,  or  faction  in  Florence,  that  we  must 
look  for  an  explanation  of  the  slowness  of  the 
evolution  of  Art  in  the  fourteenth  century.  These 
incidents  are  the  effect  of  causes  which  lie  much 
deeper  at  the  root  of  things.  Christendom  had 
been  engaged  for  two  hundred  years  in  the  fruitless 
effort  to  plant  the  Cross  in  the  Holy  Land.  Eight 
times  had  Italy  and  France  and  Germany  and 
Spain,  and  England,  sent  the  flower  of  their 
chivalry  to  Palestine.  Eight  times,  from  Godfrey 
de  Bouillon,  and  Coeur  de  Lion,  to  St.  Louis  of 
France  and  our  first  Edward,  had  the  Cross  been 
beaten  down  by  the  Crescent.  Perhaps  Christ 
never  intended  that  His  Kingdom  should  be  won 

15 


THE  AWAKENING 

by  fire  and  sword.  It  is  easy  for  us  to  say  that 
now,  and  I  for  one  believe  it  to  be  true.  Never- 
theless it  is  also  true  that  the  Crusaders  set  before 
themselves,  and  held  steadily  before  Christendom, 
a  lofty  ideal  of  courage,  and  chivalry,  and  faith, 
and  self-sacrifice — and  it  is  in  high  ideals  that  Art 
lives,  and  moves,  and  has  its  being.  It  is  not  suc- 
cess, it  is  the  cause  that  inspires. 

The  cause  failed.  The  Crusades  were  finally 
abandoned  at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
and  the  fourteenth  century  witnessed  the  debacle. 
Attempts  at  racial  conquest  are  of  necessity 
followed  by  demoralization  of  the  people.  In 
every  case,  victors  or  vanquished,  the  soldiery  are 
driven  back  upon  the  citizens — without  means, 
without  employment,  their  souls  and  bodies 
saturated  with  evils  generated  in  the  life  of  the 
camp,  by  the  absolute  negation  for  a  time  at  least 
of  all  the  laws  of  God  and  man.  And  the  men 
who  thus  return  comprise  the  worst  rather  than 
the  best  of  their  kind — the  best  and  bravest  are 
too  often  left  to  fertilize  the  soil  of  the  country 
against  which  they  have  been  fighting.  Why 
should  a  new  language  have  been  invented  for  the 
painter  in  which  to  chronicle  all  this  ?  Was  it 
worth  chronicling  ?  The  painters  appear  to  have 
thought  it  was  not.  They  turned  their  attention 
to  charades.  In  England  these  charades  are 

16 


CLOUDS 

known  as  mysteries — in  Italy  they  were  called  by 
their  true  name  nuvoli — that  is  "  clouds."  Even 
the  artist  was  re-named,  becoming  "  the  carpen- 
ter'*— legnaiolo — of  the  Church.  It  was  his  busi- 
ness to  make  machines,  by  means  of  which  men 
and  boys,  swathed  in  cotton  wool,  could  be  man- 
oeuvred to  represent  the  great  drama  of  Redemp- 
tion— the  Ascension  of  our  Lord — the  Assumption 
of  the  Virgin — the  Transfiguration — anything  and 
everything  that  could  take  place  in  clouds — as  if 
the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  were  a  province  of  cloud- 
land.  These  machines — made  of  wood,  with  poles 
and  ropes,  and  many  pulleys,  were  carried  in  pro- 
cession through  the  streets,  and  hauled  up  in  the 
cathedral  above  the  rood  screen.  The  Angels, 
lashed  to  the  poles  to  keep  them  steady,  and 
weighted  by  balances  of  lead  to  keep  them  up- 
right— together  with  the  glorious  company  of  the 
Apostles  and  their  risen  Lord,  were  covered  with 
cloud  upon  cloud  of  semi-transparent  whiteness. 
In  the  church  of  the  Carmine  a  second  "  cloud," 
engineered  by  a  windlas  with  vast  wheels,  repre- 
sented the  Ten  Circles  of  Heaven.  Vasari  says — 
for  the  custom  lingered  through  the  fifteenth 
century  to  his  time — that  it  was  all  very  solemn, 
and  beautiful,  and  admirably  contrived.  He  does 
not  say  how  it  began  and  ended.  It  began  with 
the  innocent  but  vulgar  desire  for  spectacle — for 
what  are  called  "  bright  services  "—  services  to 


THE  AWAKENING 


attract  the  masses.  Have  we  not  seen  such  ex- 
pedients tried  ?  It  ended  with  refined  and 
exalted  visions  of  the  Beatific  Life,  and  the  Dies 
Ircz—as  painted  by  Fra  Angelico  and  Michael 
Angelo.  Look  at  these  nine  lines  I  have  scored 
across  the  page.  They  represent  the  lives  of  nine 


of  the  painters  of  the  Awakening.  They  come  in 
the  thirteenth  century  as  flowers  in  spring — to  be 
followed  by  the  flowers  of  summer.  But  between 
spring  and  summer,  between  the  Awakening,  that 
is,  and  the  Renascence,  there  is  a  terrible  hiatus. 
For  a  period  of  more  than  fifty  years  after  the 
passing  of  Giotto,  only  two  or  three  painters  of 
the  Awakening  seem  to  have  kept  their  eyes  open. 
There  is  no  Umbrian  School,  or  School  of  Venice, 
or  of  Tuscany,  or  of  Milan,  or  of  Bologna,  or  of 
Parma,  or  of  Naples,  or  of  Florence,  or  of  Rome. 
Only  Duccio  goes  on  for  a  few  years  painting  the 

18 


THE  HOLY  FIELD 

story  of  the  life  of  Christ,  in  the  Duomo  of  Siena — 
Spinello  takes  up  the  miracles  of  the  saints  in  San 
Miniato — while  Orcagno  shows  us  the  Argosies, 
in  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa.  One  of  our  painter 
poets,  A.  W.  Hunt— who  is  now  himself  sleep- 
ing in  holy  ground  —  describes  these  Argosies 
in  verses  as  lovely  as  his  own  pictures.  They 
are  the  Argosies  of  the  Crusaders,  bringing  home 
their  treasure  from  the  East — not  of  pearls  or 
jewels— not  of  silver  or  gold — 

O  happy  winds  our  sails  that  fill ! 

O  happy  waves  around  us  leaping  ! 
For  blessed  earth  from  Calvary's  hill 

Is  what  our  frail  barks  hold  in  keeping. 

Dust — very  God  hath  trodden  !    dust — 
Which  they  who  bore  it  o'er  the  sea 

Sought  to  be  laid  in,  with  fond  trust 
Their  sleep  would  thereby  sweeter  be. 

But  these  frescoes  were  painted  near  the  close  of 
the  century,  and  I  must  not  anticipate. 

Besides,  there  was  another  influence  at  work 
which  stayed  the  evolution  of  painting  in  the  four- 
teenth century.  The  passion  for  Art  was  drawn 
into  other  channels — poetry,  and  music,  sculpture 
and  architecture. 

It  was  during  the  first  crusade  that  Europe 
slowly  emerged  from  the  barbarism  of  the  dark 

19 


THE  AWAKENING 

ages.  The  new  civilization  began  with  song. 
Poetry  and  Music  came  as  twin-sisters.  The  scale 
was  invented ;  melody  began  to  be  distinguished 
from  harmony ;  time  was  found  to  be  capable  of 
measurement  and  notation — in  a  word,  Music 
became  one  of  the  Fine  Arts.  And  with  Music> 
Poetry.  The  troubadours  were  both  poets  and 
musicians.  They  sang  of  love,  and  war  ;  of  the 
illustrious  men  and  women  of  the  age ;  they 
satirized  the  priests  and  monks  ;  they  filled  the 
courts  of  princes  with  delight,  until  the  last  Cru- 
sade, and  then — they  vanished. 

This  was  in  Italy  and  France,  and  Spain.  But 
in  Germany,  music  and  poetry  followed  the  same 
course.  Only  in  Germany,  the  Minnesingers  did 
not  vanish  with  the  troubadours.  They  formed 
themselves  into  an  "  Incorporated  Society  "  and> 
that  there  might  be  no  mistake  as  to  who  and 
what  they  were,  they  changed  their  modest  name 
of  "  Minnesingers  "  into  "  Meistersingers."  That 
was  a  hundred  years  before  Hans  Sachs  became 
their  Dean. 

Then  there  were  the  miniatori,  or,  as  Dante- 
careful,  after  a  visit  to  Paris,  of  his  French  accent, 
prefers  to  call  them,  the  alluminari  in  Parisi — 
who,  during  the  dark  ages,  kept  the  lamp  of  Art 
burning ;  illuminating  not  manuscripts  only,  but 
the  hearts  of  scholars  with  the  sense  of  the  loveli- 

20 


THE  SCRIPTORIUM 

ness  of  colour  and  design,  which — if  not  Art  in  its 
highest  form — still  is  Art.  Think  of  the  colophon 
which  closed  each  volume  with  some  message  from 
the  writer  to  the  reader — of  thankfulness  that  the 
task  was  accomplished — of  laughter  at  the  humour 
of  the  book — of  anathema  on  anyone  who  should 
steal  it — but  more  often  of  prayer  to  God,  and 
entreaties  to  the  reader  for  his  intercession. 
"  Ye  who  read,  pray  for  me,  the  most  sinful  of 
men/1  "  Keep  safe,  O  Trinity,  my  three  fingers 
with  which  I  have  written  this  book."  These  are 
some  of  the  phrases  with  which  the  old  copyists 
lingered  over  their  last  page,  where  we  are  content 
to  write  the  word  Finis. 

There  is  a  lovely  picture  of  such  a  Scriptorium 
in  the  Golden  Legend — where,  as  the  daylight 
dies,  Friar  Pacificus  lays  down  his  weary  pen — 

It  is  growing  dark  !    yet  one  line  more, 
And  then  my  work  for  the  day  is  o'er. 
I  come  again  to  the  Name  of  the  Lord  ! 
Let  me  pause  awhile,  and  wash  my  pen  ; 
Pure  from  blemish  and  spot  it  must  be 
When  I  write  that  word  of  mystery. 

Thus  the  patient  scribe  wears  out  his  eyes,  if 
not  his  heart,  in  transcribing  the  sacred  text — 
counting  the  words  and  letters  as  faithfully  as  the 
mosaic  worker  counts  the  tesserae  in  the  aureole  of 

21 


THE  AWAKENING 

Christ.  Moreover,  the  missal  painter  has  his  share 
of  the  original  sin  of  the  true  artist — which,  accord- 
ing to  Dante,  cost  Cimabue  and  Giotto  so  dear. 
Listen  again  to  Pacificus — 

There  now,  is  an  initial  letter  ! 

Saint  Ulric  himself  never  wrote  a  better  : 

Finished  down  to  the  leaf  and  the  snail, 

Down  to  the  eyes  on  the  peacock's  tail ! 

It  is  well  written,  though  I  say  it  ! 

I  should  not  be  afraid  to  display  it, 

In  open  day,  on  the  self-same  shelf 

With  the  writings  of  Saint  Thecla  herself, 

Or  of  Theodosius,  who  of  old 

Wrote  the  Gospels  in  letters  of  gold  ! 

Take  it,  O  Lord,  and  let  it  be 

As  something  I  have  done  for  Thee  ! 

(He  turns  to  the  window.) 
How  sweet  the  air  is  !     How  fair  the  scene  ! 
I  wish  I  had  as  lovely  a  green 
To  paint  my  landscapes  and  my  leaves  ! 
How  the  swallows  twitter  under  the  eaves  ! 
There  now,  there  is  one  in  her  nest ; 
I  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  head  and  breast, 
And  will  sketch  her  thus  in  her  quiet  nook, 
For  the  margin  of  my  Gospel  book. 

(He  makes  a  sketch.) 
I  can  see  no  more. 

But  was   it   only  the  twittering  of  a  swallow  ? 

It  was  growing  dark ;  he  could  see  no  more ;  he 

had  caught  but  a  glimpse — it  might  have  been  a 

thrush.     I  do  not  know.    Perhaps  he  thought  that 

\  an   illuminated   missal   is   to   a  painted   picture 

22 


THE  ARCH-ARTIST 

as  the  twittering  of  a  rondinella  is  to  the  song 
of  a  tor  do.  The  missal  painter,  however,  and  the 
missel  thrush  are  not  so  very  far  apart  as  the 
derivation  of  their  names  suggest.  If  the  song  in 
the  cloister  garden  is  Music,  the  drawing  in  the 
scriptorium  is  Art. 

And  now  Architecture.  Is  not  the  designer 
'of  everything — the  arch-artist — the  master  of  all 
the  arts — the  Architect — to  be  taken  into  account 
in  considering  the  forces  which  kept  Art  alive 
during  the  dark  centuries  ?  Yes,  but  the  architect 
and  the  painter  stand  so  very  far  apart  that — 
like  men  who  speak  the  same  language  in  different 
dialects — they  fail  sometimes  to  understand  each 
other.  The  glory  of  the  architect  is  that  his  work 
shall  be  seen  to  be  what  it  is — the  glory  of  the 
painter  is  that  his  work  shall  seem  to  be  what  it 
is  not.  And  so  it  fell  out  that  when  painting  had 
almost  become  a  lost  art,  architecture  was  at  its 
best.  Westminster  Abbey,  in  England — Chartres 
Cathedral,  in  France — the  Dom  Kirche  of  Ander- 
nach,  in  Germany — the  Cloisters  of  Seville,  in 
Spain — the  Duomo  of  Siena,  in  Italy — are  suffi- 
cient to  remind  us  that  in  the  midst  of  the  dark- 
ness the  Architect  moved  in  a  light  of  his  own. 
And  with  him  the  Sculptor.  For  the  two  worked 
together — though  we  forget  sometimes  how  very 
little  they  did  to  help  the  painter.  The  old 

23 


THE  AWAKENING 

mosaic-workers  found  in  the  domes  and  triumphal 
arches  of  the  basilicas  the  place  of  all  places 
where  they  could  best  exercise  their  craft.  But 
the  groined  vaulting  of  a  gothic  cathedral  is 
complete  in  itself.  In  the  construction  of  the 
churches  I  have  named  painting  might  have  been 
left  altogether  out  of  the  account.  The  pictures 
which  adorn  them  are  not  of  the  essence  of  the 
building — they  are  limited  to  the  decoration  of  an 
altar  or  a  shrine.  In  Westminster  Abbey,  for 
instance,  there  is  no  painting  at  all,  even  the  altar 
piece  is  a  modern  mosaic  from  the  workshop  of 
an  Italian  manufactory. 

But  for  all  that,  the  new  language  lived,  and 
presently  it  found  something  to  say.  I  am  afraid 
that  I  have  said  too  much  about  the  new  language 
already.  But  I  pray  to  be  forgiven,  because  after 
all  it  is  the  heart  of  the  subject.  And  there  is  yet 
one  word  to  add.  The  invention  of  painting  was 
to  Art  precisely  what  the  invention  of  printing 
was  to  Letters. 

Now  this  is  very  curious.  When  we  look  closely 
into  the  matter  it  seems  a  contradiction  in  terms. 
For  what  was  it  that  the  printing  press  did  ?  It 
substituted  machine  work  for  hand  work.  It  super- 
seded the  writing  of  manuscripts  by  the  setting 
up  of  type — tesselated  letters — as  uniform  as  the 
tesserae  of  the  mosaic  worker,  and  as  mechani- 

24 
\ 


; 


PLATE    VI.       THE    CHRIST    OF    THE    BASILICAS 

FROM  A  MOSAIC  IN  THE  CHURCH  OF 
S    APPOLL1NARE  NUOVO,   KAVKNNA 


THE  NEW  LANGUAGE 

cal  in  application.  No  more,  if  you  please,  of 
the  beautiful  flourish  of  illuminated  capitals,  or 
sweeps  of  the  pen,  with  a  twiddle  in  the  middle, 
reaching  half  across  the  page.  "  A,  is  A,"  says 
the  compositor,  "  and  nothing  else  ;  let  us  keep 
to  facts."  Very  well  then,  what  was  it  that  the 
substitution  of  brush-work  for  mosaic,  did  for 
Art  ?  It  was  the  exact  reverse  of  what  printing 
did.  It  was  the  substitution  of  hand  work  for 
machine  work.  No  more,  if  you  please,  of  the  old 
method  of  counting — one,  two,  three,  four — to  the 
aureole — and  five,  six,  seven — to  the  tip  of  the 
angel's  wing.  We  do  all  that  with  a  sweep  of  the 
pencil  dipped  in  the  colour  we  have  made  to  our 
own  pleasure — not  chosen  from  a  manufacturer's 
store,  as  ladies  choose  their  silks  for  embroidery. 
But  if  Art  finds  its  new  life  in  emancipation  from 
machine  work,  and  Letters  in  emancipation  from 
handwork,  what  have  the  two  in  common  that 
they  should  be  classed  together  ? 

The  question  discloses  the  answer.  They  are 
emancipated.  It  is  the  setting  free — the  breaking 
away  from  old  traditions — the  revolt  from  the 
superstitions  of  the  dark  ages,  that  brings  new  life 
both  to  Letters  and  to  Art.  Whether  the  restraint 
was  the  limitation  of  the  power  of  communicating 
thought,  from  which  the  poet  was  redeemed  by 
the  printing  press,  or  the  limitation  of  the  power  of 

25 


THE  AWAKENING 

expressing  thought,  from  which  the  painter  was 
redeemed  by  the  free  use  of  the  brush  does  not 
matter — the  redemption  came.  The  redemption 
came  with  the  Reformation.  If  the  Reformation 
had  not  followed  the  Awakening  the  Princess  would 
have  fallen  back  into  a  slumber  that  might  have 
proved  endless.  The  new  language  which  the 
Prince  had  learned  would  have  been  useless  if  he 
had  nothing  new  to  say  in  it. 

See  now,  how  all  things  move  to  the  same  end. 
Margaritone,  Cimabue,  Giotto,  have  ransomed  Art 
— the  Printing  Press  has  ransomed  Letters— 
the  Reformation  has  ransomed  Mind.  We  have 
become  free  men.  But  we  do  not  owe  our  free- 
dom as  men  to  Florence,  or  Rome,  or  Siena,  or 
Pisa.  Italy  created  the  new  language  of  Art> 
but  the  something  new  to  say  in  it  did  not  come 
from  Italy.  It  came  from  a  little  village  in 
England,  where  Wycliffe — driven  from  Oxford, 
condemned  by  the  Pope,  and  by  William,  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury — was  quietly  translating  the 
Scriptures.  Wycliffe's  Bible  is  only  a  translation 
of  a  translation — the  Vulgate — but  it  served  its 
purpose.  How  far  away  Lutterworth  seems  from 
the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa  !  It  is  just  the  same 
distance  that  Pisa  is  from  the  Holy  Land.  How 
different  the  argosies  of  the  Crusaders  from  the 
flames  in  which  the  martyrs  perished.  But  did 

26 


PETRARCH  AND  BOCCACCIO 

Wycliffe  perish  ?  His  ashes  were  thrown  into  the 
little  river  Swift — which  flowed  by  his  garden — a 
tributary  of  the  Avon,  and  an  old  ballad  says — 

The  Avon  to  the  Severn  ran, 

The  Severn  to  the  sea  ; 
And  Wy cliff e's  dust  was  borne  afar 

Like  that  from  Calvary. 

In  the  meantime  the  few  remaining  painters  of 
the  Awakening  were  not  without  light  in  their  own 
country.  With  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  living 
amongst  them  it  seems  scarcely  conceivable  that 
Art  should  really  die.  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio 
were  children  together  at  the  beginning  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  and  lived  together  till  well 
towards  its  close.  As  Dante  had  been  the  friend 
of  Giotto  so  was  Petrarch  the  friend  of  Simon 
Memmi,  who  painted  for  him  the  portrait  of  his 
Laura.  After  all,  poets  and  painters  are  but  re- 
flections of  the  life  of  the  age  in  which  they  live. 
The  spiritual  unrest — the  personal  ambitions  of 
rival  families,  the  uncontrolled  passions  of  sensual 
desire,  are  flashed  in  the  singers'  rhymes,  as  well 
as  in  the  artist's  colour.  It  was  just  a  hundred 
years  after  Cimabue  stood  at  the  door  of  Santa 
Maria  Novella  watching  the  painters  at  their  work, 
that  a  scene  was  enacted  of  a  very  different 
character.  The  plague  which,  in  the  middle  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  swept  across  Europe,  devas- 

27 


THE  AWAKENING 

tating  London,  and  Paris,  has  not  spared  the 
City  of  Flowers.  The  little  bell  in  Santa  Maria 
rings  for  mass,  but  the  church  is  empty.  At  last 
a  lady  moves  slowly  towards  the  altar.  She  is 
followed  by  another,  and  another,  till  there  are 
seven.  They  are  robed  in  black.  The  service 
over  they  exchange  salutations.  At  that  moment 
three  gentlemen  approach.  They  are  all  known 
to  each  other — some  are  indeed  lovers.  They 
agree  to  leave  Florence,  to  elect  one  of  them  as 
their  Queen,  and  to  spend  such  nights  as  may 
remain  to  them — before  they  are  swept  into  the 
charnel  house — at  Fiesole,  where  each  of  the  ten 
shall  in  turn  tell  some  tale  of  love  or  adventure. 
That  is  the  story  of  the  Decameron.  And  as 
Boccaccio  tells  it  the  thing  seems  so  real  that  to 
this  day  it  is  uncertain  whether  his  characters 
were  living  realities  or  only  the  creatures  of  his 
imagination. 

Another  century.  I  feel  that  I  am  dealing  with 
the  centuries  too  lightly — as  if  they  were  pawns  in 
a  game  of  chess.  And  so  they  are.  For  pawns 
are  of  different  values  according  to  the  possibilities 
of  their  reaching  the  eighth  square.  Sometimes 
they  seem  to  come  to  an  impasse,  as  did  the  four- 
teenth, which  should  have  seen  the  meridian 
splendour  of  the  Renascence,  but  lingered  over 
the  Awakening.  A  century  is  so  long  a  time, 

28 


SAVONAROLA 

compared  with  the  painter's  life — it  is  so  short  a 
time  compared  with  the  painter's  Art — that  the 
word  seems  to  have  two  scales  of  meaning.  It  is 
a  convenient  word,  however,  perhaps  for  that 
very  reason. 

Another  century — this  time  the  sense  of  the 
word  is  to  be  found  in  the  shorter  scale — and  the 
scene  again  changes.  There  is  a  great  procession 
in  Florence,  of  priests,  and  monks,  and  an  innu- 
merable company  of  citizens,  with  Savonarola  at 
their  head.  See,  the  smoke  of  the  burning.  The 
whole  city  has  been  ransacked,  and  every  copy  of 
the  Decameron  of  Boccaccio  is  being  committed 
to  the  flames. 

There  is  only  one  thing  that  does  not  suffer 
change.  Throughout  the  centuries  of  the  Awaken- 
ing the  painters  are  painting  Christ.  Sometimes 
in  the  old  method  of  mosaic,  sometimes  in  the  new 
method  of  fresco — but  always  the  same  Christ. 
The  Christ  that  the  first  Christians  knew  in  the 
darkness  of  the  catacombs  during  long  years  of 
Roman  persecution — the  Christ  that  the  Fathers 
knew,  when  under  Constantine  they  received  reli- 
gious freedom,  and  emblazoned  the  Likeness  on 
the  triumphal  arches  of  their  basilicas.  The 
Christ  that  Margaritone  and  Cimabue  knew  when 
they  were  still  counting — one,  two,  three,  of  blue — 
four,  five,  six,  of  gold.  The  Christ  who  never 

29 


THE  AWAKENING 

wept,  never  smiled,  never  frowned — but  only 
looked  straight  into  your  eyes,  as  if  He  would 
read  your  heart,  that  He  might  know  whether 
you  really  loved  Him  or  not. 

For  the  frescoes  and  glass  pictures  of  the  cata- 
combs had  served  their  purpose  in  securing  to  the 
painter  the  knowledge  of  the  Likeness  of  Christ. 
The  mosaics  of  the  basilicas  had  served  the  same 
purpose  in  preserving  it,  not  only  from  the  ravages 
of  the  barbarians,  but  from  the  corruptions  which 
might  have  destroyed  it  in  the  dark  ages,  or  de- 
based it  by  the  debasement  of  Art.  And  now  the 
dawn  is  breaking — the  dawn  of  the  Renascence— 
the  Renascence  of  Art.  The  painters  shall  still 
paint  Christ.  They  shall  paint  Apollo  as  well, 
and  Diana,  and  Adonis  and  Jove — they  shall  paint 
everything  that  God  has  created  or  man  has 
imagined,  but  they  shall  still  paint  Christ.  Per 
Agonem  et  Sanguineum  Sudorem;  per  Crucem  et 
Passionem  ;  per  pretiosam  Mortem  et  Sepulturam  ; 
per  gloriosam  Resurrectionem,  et  Ascensionem  tuam 
in  ccelos.  That  is  the  Litany  of  Fiesole.  Is  it  not 
very  much  like  our  own  ?  The  first  Christians  had 
never  represented  the  sufferings  of  the  Redeemer. 
No  man  paints  the  portrait  of  his  friend  in  the 
agony  of  death — it  is  the  living  face,  that  can  give 
back  love  for  love,  and  smile  for  smile,  that 
personal  affection  desires  to  recall.  But  when  Fra 
Angelico  for  the  first  time  brings  a  smile  into  the 

30 


Alinari 


PLATE    VIF.       THE    CHRIST    OF    THE    AWAKENING 


FROM  A  PAINTING  BY  FRA  ANGELICO 
IN  SAN  MARCO,  FLORENCE 


THE  PAINTER'S  LITANY 

face  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  when  Michael  Angelo 
paints  the  Son  of  Man  laid  in  the  grave — when 
Raphael  paints  the  Son  of  God  communing  with 
the  Father — surely  there  will  be  a  difference. 
From  this  time  the  painter  is  no  more  content  to 
paint  the  Likeness  of  Christ  apart  from  expression. 
The  whole  story  of  His  life  must  be  told — not 
in  the  passionless  simplicity  of  portraiture  with 
which  it  had  been  told  in  the  catacombs  and  the 
basilicas,  but  with  the  passion  of  the  great  revival 
of  Art,  and  with  the  knowledge  which  makes  the 
human  face  an  open  book  to  the  artist. 

I  have  done  now  with  my  first  simile  of  the 
Sleeping  Princess — but  only  to  change  it  for  an- 
other. What  is  that- 

"  Hist!  "—said  Kate  the  Queen. 
But  "Oh!"  cried  the  maiden  binding  her  tresses — 
"  Tis  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen "  — 

The  maiden  was  mistaken.  It  was  the  First  of 
the  Seven  Angels  of  the  Renascence.  The  Prin- 
cess lifted  her  eyes,  and  lo  !  the  heavens  were  full 
of  stars. 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 


4 -(2389) 


MONA  LISA.  But  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  you 
painted  me  twenty  years  ago.  Why  do  you  desire 
to  paint  me  again  ? 

LEONARDO.  /  painted  you  then  as  the  Blessed 
Virgin.  Now  you  are  old  enough  for  me  to  paint 
you  as  her  mother.  Stay — I  am  called. 

(ENTER  THE  ANGEL.) 

MONA  LISA.     What  does  the  Messenger  say? 

THE  ANGEL.  Life  is  Light,  and  is  not  to  be 
measured  by  Time. 


PLATE  VIII.       FROM  A  PAINTING 
IN  'I  HE  UFFIZI,  FLORENCE 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 


HEY  know  little  of 
the  poetry  of  the 
heavens  who  think 
of  the  stars  only  as 
so  many  points  of 
light  in  the  purple 
darkness — without 
realising  the  love- 
liness of  the  clus- 
ters in  which  they 
are  grouped.  From 
Homer  to  Virgil,  from  Dante  to  Shakespeare,  it  is 
always  the  constellation  rather  than  the  "  bright 
particular  star  "  that  fills  the  imagination  with 
high  and  beautiful  thoughts.  Listen  to  Minerva, 
as  she  addresses  the  Muses  on  the  occasion  of  her 
first  visit  to  the  streams  of  Helicon. 

35 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

"  I  come,"  she  says,  "  to  see  the  new  fountain 
which  you  say  sprang  from  the  rock  when  it  was 
touched  by  the  feet  of  the  winged  steed.'* 

"  It  is  true/'  replied  Urania.  "  I  saw  him  strike 
the  ground,  and  the  waters  rushed  forth.  But  I 
saw  more.  I  saw  Pegasus  himself  spring  from  the 
Medusa,  when  Perseus  smote  off  her  head." 

And  Minerva  looks  round  upon  the  lovely  scene, 
the  groves  of  laurel  and  palm,  the  grottoes,  the 
fields  studded  with  innumerable  flowers,  and  she 
thinks  the  Nine  Sisters,  must  be  very  happy— 
particularly  with  such  an  addition  to  their  menage 
as  a  flying  horse!  And  so  they  were.  But  for 
ourselves — we  see  Pegasus  only  in  the  sky,  and 
wonder  every  night  which  of  the  Nine  is  holding 
the  rein.  For  alas  our  eyes  can  discern  only  a 
cluster  of  stars  where  his  head  should  be,  and 
nothing  to  represent  the  swish  of  his  tail. 

This,  however,  must  not  be  taken  to  prove  that 
our  vision  is  imperfect.  For  Pegasus  has  no  tail. 
At  least  not  now.  It  may  have  been  different 
when  Urania  saw  him — but  now  he  comes  head 
foremost  out  of  the  clouds.  We  know  that  it  is 
Pegasus  because  of  his  wings — but  we  see  no  more. 
How  is  this  ?  What  have  we  lost  ?  Have  we  lost 
the  vision  only  ?  or  have  we  lost  the  imagination— 
from  which  the  vision  springs  as  the  sacred  waters 
spring  from  Helicon  ?  To  lose  either  would  mean 
the  decay  and  ultimate  annihilation  of  Art. 

36  • 


THE  FLOOR  OF  HEAVEN 

It  has  not  really  come  to  that  just  yet.  The 
story  of  the  constellation  of  Pegasus  is  so  old  that 
the  mind  reels  to  think  of  the  ages  during  which 
even  the  meaning  of  the  names  of  its  chief  stars — 
markab,  scheat,  and  algenib — has  been  forgotten. 
And  yet  Art  has  a  good  memory.  Look  at 
Achilles'  shield — as  bright  to-day  as  when  it  came 
from  the  hand  of  the  artist  god.  There  shone  the 
starry  lights  of  heaven — 

The  Pleiads,  Hyads,  with  the  Northern  Team  ; 
And  Great  Orion's  more  refulgent  beam  ; 
To  which,  around  the  axle  of  the  sky, 
The  Bear  revolving  points  his  golden  eye. 

This — eight  hundred  years  before  Christ !  And 
twice  eight  hundred  years  after  Christ  it  is  the 
same.  Shakespeare  says — 

Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlay'd  with  patines  of  bright  gold  : 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young  eyed  cherubim. 

It  is  then  to  a  group  of  painters,  rather  than 
to  an  individual  genius — to  the  choir  of  heaven 
rather  than  to  a  solitary  voice — that  I  turn  for 
light  and  music.  Just  as  in  considering  the  Art 
of  the  Victorian  Era,  I  studied  the  life  and  works 
of  five  great  painters— Leighton,  Millais,  Watts, 
Burne  Jones,  Holman  Hunt — finding  in  them  the 

37 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 


expression  of  the  Art  of  our  own  day,  so  now  I  set 
before  me  the  life  and  work  of  five  great  painters 
of  the  Renascence — Da  Vinci,  Michael  Angelo, 
Titian,  Raphael,  and  Correggio — regarding  them 
not  as  solitary  stars,  but  as  a  constellation  in  the 
firmament  of  Art. 

I  have  named  them  in  the  order  of  their  birth. 
Their  lives  lie  in  parallel  lines,  and  cover  a  period 
of  a  little  more  than  a  century — from  1452,  when 
Da  Vinci  was  born — to  1576.  when  Titian  died. 


I 

CA  VINCI 


K.ANCELQ 


GQftftSGGIO 

I 

Only  for  a  very  few  years,  however,  were  they 
actually  contemporaries,  living  and  working  to- 
gether. It  is  interesting  to  note  how  far  their 
lives  did  run  together,  with  the  possibility  of 
companionship,  and  the  fine  emulation  which 
comes,  with  friendly  personal  intercourse,  between 
men  pursuing  the  same  object.  I  have  made  a 
little  scale  which  will  show  this  at  a  glance.  The 
three  vertical  lines  divide  the  centuries. 

It  will  be  seen  that  Da  Vinci  was  a  young  man, 
just  come  of  age,  when  Michael  Angelo  and  Titian 

38 


LAYING  THE  FOUNDATIONS 

were  born.  Then  Raphael  followed  very  quickly, 
.  so  that  Angelo  and  Titian  and  Raphael  were  boys 
together ;  and  when  Correggio  was  added  to  the 
group  they  were  but  lads  still.  No  doubt  the  four 
youngsters  regarded  Da  Vinci  as  a  very  old  fellow 
indeed. 

In  looking  back  upon  the  evolution  of  Art  in 
the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries  one  is  re- 
minded of  the  building  of  a  great  cathedral.  It 
is  not  every  architect  who,  like  Sir  Christopher 
Wren,  lives  to  see  the  completion  of  his  design. 
St.  Peter's,  at  Rome,  was  planned  by  Bramante 
as  a  Greek  cross,  and  the  first  stone  was  laid  with 
great  pomp  in  1506.  What  would  Bramante  say 
if  he  could  see  it  now  ?  When  Raphael  was  ap- 
pointed architect,  he  changed  the  Greek  into  a 
Latin  cross.  A  little  later,  Peruzzi,  who  succeeded 
Raphael,  restored  the  Greek  form  ;  a  little  later 
still,  another  architect,  San  Gallo,  changed  it  back 
to  the  Latin.  Greek  and  Latin — Latin  and  Greek 
—so  the  changes  were  rung,  until  Michael  Angelo 
restored  the  foundations  to  the  original  design  of 
Bramante.  But  even  this  was  not  to  be  the  end. 
In  the  Decadence  which  followed,  the  nave  was 
again  lengthened  to  the  proportions  we  see  to-day. 
It  was  thus  with  the  Renascence  of  Art.  It  was 
marked  by  changes  corresponding  to  the  evolution 
of  a  great  edifice.  Its  foundations  were  laid  by 

39 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

Da  Vinci,  on  the  finest  lines  of  scholarship  and 
scientific  knowledge.  A  new  splendour  came  upon 
it  through  the  impassioned  imagination  of  Michael 
Angelo.  It  was  enriched  with  colour  through  the 
palette  of  Titian.  It  became  more  lovely  through 
the  tenderness  and  grace  of  Correggio — more 
stately  and  balanced  through  the  completeness  of 
Raphael.  The  movement  was  not  always  at  the 
same  impetus,  nor  in  the  same  direction,  but  it  was 
always  forward — and  it  began  with  Leonardo. 
That  is  to  say,  the  foundations  were  well  laid,  and 
the  building  was  watched  with  intelligent  eyes. 

Let  me  now  complete  the  simile.  If  the  evolu- 
tion of  the  Renascence  may  be  compared  to  the 
building  of  a  cathedral,  I  think  the  study  of  the 
life  of  one  of  its  great  painters  may  be  counted 
as  a  visit  to  the  cathedral  itself.  How  shall  we 
best  explore  its  mysteries  ?  We  may  enter  by  a 
little  door,  leading  to  a  narrow  aisle — where  we 
may  come  upon  some  lovely  piece  of  sculpture, 
graceful  arch,  or  jewelled  window.  Then  we  may 
discover  transept  and  choir,  and  hidden  shrine, 
seeing  more  and  more  of  the  splendour  of  the  archi- 
tecture as  we  advance,  until,  looking  towards  the 
East  from  the  extreme  length  of  the  nave,  we  see 
finally  how  God  and  man  have  wrought  together 
—man,  in  perfecting  the  design — God,  in  illumin- 
ating it  with  His  own  sunshine.  Or,  if  the  great 

40 


AN  IMPRESSIONIST  SKETCH 

west  door  stands  open,  we  may  pass,  in  a  moment, 
from  the  noise,  and  gloom,  and  confusion  of  the 
street,  to  the  stillness,  and  glory,  and  order  of  the 
finest  creation  of  the  human  mind.  Come,  then 
let  us  go  straight  to  the  heart  of  Da  Vinci,  and 
learn  at  once  what  we  may  expect  to  find  in  the 
record  of  his  life. 

A  child  without  a  mother — a  child  in  his  father's 
house  from  which  the  mother  is  banished. 

A  youth  well  educated — clever  and  studious — 
surrounded  with  many  brothers  and  sisters. 

An  apprentice  in  the  workshop  of  a  famous 
artist — teaching  his  master  how  to  paint. 

A  young  man  of  extraordinary  distinction — 
alike  for  personal  beauty  and  for  intellectual 
force — singing  his  own  verses  to  the  lute  as  an 
improvisatore. 

The  companion  and  friend  of  princes — appa- 
relled as  a  god,  in  garments  of  rose-colour,  and 
with  his  hair  flowing  to  his  waist. 

The  leader  of  the  most  advanced  School  of  Art 
-while  other  painters  are  scarcely  emancipated 
from  the  restraints  and  traditions  of  fresco  and 
mosaic. 

An  engineer,  an  architect,  a  sculptor,  a  poet,  a 
painter,  a  musician,  a  philosopher,  a  voluminous 
writer,  the  founder  of  a  great  Academy. 

A  son,  ministering  to  his  unhappy  mother  in 

41 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

her  necessity  ;  and,  although  for  himself  rejecting 
Catholic  dogma,  securing  for  her  the  last  rites  of 
the  Church. 

A  man  of  whom  there  is  no  record  that  he  ever 
loved  a  woman. 

A  Master  of  the  Ceremonies  at  Court — following 
the  fortunes  of  a  Royal  House  rather  than  the 
fortunes  of  his  country. 

An  Italian — exiled  from  Italy — dying  in  the 
arms  of  a  French  king. 

What  is  it  that  draws  men  into  the  profession 
of  Art  ?  Da  Vinci  was  the  founder  of  a  famous 
Academy,  but  in  his  early  days  there  were  no 
schools  of  art,  such  as  we  have  to-day,  nor  exhibi- 
tions of  the  works  of  contemporary  painters,  to 
which  young  eyes  turn,  as  flowers  turn  to  the  light. 
The  encouragement  of  Art  was  limited  to  the 
patronage  of  princes  and  nobles  of  great  wealth, 
who  found  place  for  the  artist  in  their  retinues — or 
to  ecclesiastics,  who  adorned  their  churches  with 
painting  and  sculpture.  To  understand  a  painter 
thoroughly,  and  his  works,  it  is  necessary  to  con- 
sider the  conditions  under  which  he  worked  ;  and 
the  conditions  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  cen- 
turies were  very  different  from  anything  within 
our  experience  in  the  twentieth.  Occasionally,  in 
reading  old  books,  we  come  upon  glimpses  of  the 
past,  which  seem  like  revelations,  as  if  a  curtain 

42 


BENVENUTO  CELLINI 

was  drawn  aside,  or  a  door  suddenly  opened, 
through  which  we  hear  voices,  and  see  strange 
things.  Thus  in  the  autobiography  of  Benvenuto 
Cellini,  a  contemporary  of  Da  Vinci — though  he 
was  but  a  young  man  when  Leonardo  died — we 
see  as  in  a  flash  of  light  the  relation  which  at  that 
time  existed  between  an  artist  and  his  patron. 
Benvenuto,  having  designed  a  salt-cellar,  which 
delighted  the  King  of  France,  determined  to  leave 
Ferrara,  where  he  had  been  employed  by  the  Duke, 
and  to  journey  to  Paris  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  an 
appointment  by  the  great  Francis.  '  There  is 
nothing  good  in  Ferrara/'  he  exclaims — "  the 
gentry  are  exceedingly  avaricious,  and  rapacious 
after  the  property  of  others — there  is  nothing  good 
in  Ferrara,  except  the  peacocks,  of  which  I  am 
tired."  He  finds  the  King  at  Fontainebleau,  and 
with  him  his  old  friend,  the  Cardinal.  Francis 
the  First  moves  in  great  state,  with  a  retinue  of 
more  than  twelve  thousand  horses  ;  and  the  sculp- 
tor dances  attendance  on  the  Court,  from  time  to 
time  entreating  the  Cardinal  to  bring  his  request 
before  His  Majesty. 

At  length  the  King  summons  the  sculptor  to  his 
presence,  talks  with  him  in  a  free  and  easy  manner, 
and  commissions  him  to  develop  his  talents  in 
works  of  gold  and  silver  more  important  than  salt- 
cellars. Moreover  the  King  offers  him  a  salary  of 
three  hundred  crowns  a  year.  To  this  Benvenuto 

43 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

vouchsafes  no  reply.  He  is  "  half  angry,  half 
grieved,  wholly  provoked  " — but  he  has  his  little 
plan — and  the  scene  changes. 

After  a  restless  night  Cellini  rises  very  early  in 
the  morning  and  saddles  his  horse.  He  will  go 
.to  the  Holy  Land.  The  Holy  Land  is  a  good  way 
off  from  Fontainebleau — but  he  will  go — and  at 
once.  He  recalls  an  old  vow  that  he  had  made 
when  he  was  the  Pope's  prisoner  in  S.  Angelo,  and 
had  nothing  to  read  all  day  but  the  Bible,  and — as 
he  says — had  spoken  with  God  for  awhile.  He  had 
promised  to  visit  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  He  will 
never  work  again  at  any  figure  save  that  of  Christ. 
It  shall  be  three  cubits  high  and  as  lovely  as  Christ 
was  when  he  saw  Him  in  a  vision.  He  is  already 
on  the  way — two  miles !  It  is  a  most  delightful 
path — through  a  wood.  He  will  make  forty  miles 
that  day.  It  will  be  impossible  for  anyone  to 
overtake  him — when  lo  !  three  horsemen  ! 

"  I  command  you  in  the  King's  name  to  repair 
to  him  immediately,"  says  the  messenger. 

"  I  am  on  my  way  to  the  Holy  Land,"  replies 
Benvenuto,  resolutely,  "  and  I  refuse  to  return." 

"  Then  I  have  the  King's  command  to  bind  you 
hand  and  foot,  and  take  you  as  his  prisoner." 

The  word  "  prisoner "  was  sufficient.  Cellini 
had  experienced  enough  of  that  in  Rome,  and  he 
quietly  turned  his  horse's  head  towards  Fontaine- 
bleau— and  the  King. 

44 


ANNEXING  AN  ARTIST 

He  had  not  very  far  to  go — a  quarter  of  an 
hour's  run — and  the  Cardinal  was  at  the  door. 
11  Our  most  Christian  King/'  said  the  Cardinal, 
"  has  of  his  own  accord  assigned  you  the  same 
salary  that  he  gave  to  the  renowned  Leonardo — 
seven  hundred  crowns  a  year.  He  will  also  pay 
you  over  and  above  for  everything  you  execute 
for  him,  and  will  make  you  a  present  of  five 
hundred  crowns  to-day,  if  you  stir  not  hence  !  " 
Benvenuto  Cellini  had  no  desire  to  stir  thence. 
The  prison — and  the  Sepulchre — could  wait. 

Seven  hundred  crowns  a  year,  then,  with  special 
payment  for  special  work,  was  the  basis  of  Da 
Vinci's  arrangement  with  the  French  King.  But 
he  did  not  attain  that  position  all  at  once.  He 
served  many  masters  in  his  time — Lorenzo  the 
Magnificent,  Sforza  the  Duke  of  Milan,  Louis  the 
Twelfth,  Caesar  Borgia,  Francis  the  First.  Lorenzo 
was  the  first  to  take  him  into  his  service,  allotting 
to  the  young  painter  a  studio  in  the  gardens  of  the 
Medici  at  Florence.  There  Da  Vinci  found  a 
collection  of  the  antique  statues  which  had  been 
recently  discovered.  These  relics  of  Greek  art  no 
doubt  awakened  in  him,  as  afterwards  in  Michael 
Angelo,  a  new  sense  of  beauty.  But  for  Leonardo 
as  a  child  there  were  no  "  old  masters  "  to  be 
worshipped.  Perugino,  Botticelli,  and  Ghirlandaio, 
were  children  about  his  own  age.  Fra  Angelico, 

45 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

who  painted  nothing  but  angels  in  the  monastery 
of  Fiesole,  on  the  hills  overlooking  the  town,  had 
died  in  Leonardo's  infancy.  Even  in  his  own 
Florence  there  was  little  to  inspire  him,  except 
Brunelleschi's  cathedral  which  had  just  been  con- 
secrated, and  Giotto's  Tower. 

Far  away,  indeed,  there  were  known  to  be 
artists  of  great  fame.  At  Venice  the  two  brothers, 
Gentile  and  Giovanni  Bellini,  were  painting  for 
the  Doge  ;  and  one  of  them,  Gentile,  it  appears, 
for  the  Sultan  at  Constantinople — for  Venice  was 
not  then  at  war  with  the  Turk.  It  was  whispered 
that  His  Majesty — Mahomet  the  Second — in  order 
to  demonstrate  to  Bellini  that  he  had  committed  a 
blunder  in  the  anatomy  of  the  severed  head  of 
John  the  Baptist — then  and  there,  in  the  presence 
of  the  painter,  cut  off  the  head  of  a  slave  who  hap- 
pened to  be  standing  within  reach  of  his  scimitar. 
I  wonder  whether  this  inquisitiveness  of  the 
Sultan  troubled  the  young  Leonardo.  It  is  said 
to  have  troubled  the  gentle  Gentile  very  greatly : 
for  the  older  of  the  old  masters  had  not  been  accus- 
tomed to  enquire  too  particularly  into  the  interior 
arrangements  of  the  human  frame.  They  took 
a  great  deal  for  granted. 

Da  Vinci,  however,  did  not  take  anything  for 
granted.  At  a  later  period  he  fully  acknowledged 
his  indebtedness  to  the  painters  of  the  thirteenth 
and  fourteenth  centuries,  but  he  did  not  follow 


HERCULES  AND  APOLLO 

them  as  his  guides.  "  No  one/'  he  says,  "  will 
ever  be  a  great  painter  who  takes  as  his  guide  the 
paintings  of  other  men.  Giotto  was  brought  up 
amongst  the  hills,  with  goats  for  his  companions, 
yet  Nature  compelled  him  to  be  an  artist,  and 
Masaccio  proved  by  the  perfection  of  his  work 
that  Nature  is  the  Mistress  of  all  the  Masters." 

Da  Vinci,  then,  according  to  his  own  account, 
became  an  artist  because  he  was  led,  or  driven, 
into  the  studio  by  Nature.  He  became  a  great 
artist  because  he  thought  for  himself,  refusing  to 
be  trammelled  by  the  conventionalisms  of  the 
Schools.  Even  as  a  lad  he  was  counted  a  prodigy 
of  learning.  When,  in  1470,  at  the  age  of  eighteen, 
he  entered  the  workshop  of  Verrocchio,  he  had 
already  "  confounded  "  his  tutor  with  unsolvable 
mathematical  problems — and,  "  being  a  youth  of 
exalted  imagination,  had  learned  to  sing  to  the 
lute  most  divinely,  improvising  at  the  same  time 
both  words  and  music."  That  is  Vasari's  account 
of  the  young  man.  Moreover,  he  is  said  to  have 
been  "  as  strong  as  Hercules,  and  as  beautiful  as 
Apollo." 

As  strong  as  Hercules  and  as  beautiful  as  Apollo 

—the  expression  is  an  echo  of  conversations  heard 

by  Vasari  in  the  studios  of  Florence  and  Rome. 

The  antique  statues — the  Apollo  Belvedere,  and 

the  Hercules  Farnese — had  just  come  to  light, 

47 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

after  a  burial  of  more  than  a  thousand  years,  an< 
the  young  painter — beautiful  to  look  upon,  accom 
plished  beyond  other  men  of  his  age,  and  endowe< 
with  great  physical  strength — appears  to  havi 
justified  the  comparison.  I  am  half  inclined  t< 
drop  the  "  Da  Vinci  "  altogether — for  after  al 
that  was  his  name  only  by  adoption — and  knov 
him  for  the  future  simply  as  Apollo.  No  doufr 
Verrocchio  felt  that  he  had  a  young  god  amongsi 
his  disciples,  and  rejoiced  accordingly. 

But  presently  things  assumed  a  different  aspect 
The  young  genius  passed  from  confounding  the 
tutor  who  taught  him  arithmetic,  to  confounding 
the  master  who  taught  him  to  paint.  And  of  this 
Andrea  Verrocchio  did  not  quite  approve.  In  his 
chagrin  at  finding  himself  surpassed  by  a  "  mere 
child  "  he  resolved  to  abandon  painting  for  the  rest 
of  his  life. 

Regarded  simply  as  an  ebullition  of  temper,  or 
jealousy,  the  incident  was  not  worth  recording. 
But  it  leads  to  something  more  than  that — to 
something  higher  and  better.  Let  us  turn  to  the 
picture  itself — the  very  picture  in  which  the  child 
"  confounded  "  the  old  man — and  see  how  Leo- 
nardo stands,  not  so  much  in  relation  to  his  master 
as  to  his  mistress — Art.  I  know  no  instance  in 
which  the  transition  or  evolution  of  Art  is  more 
visibly  expressed.  The  kneeling  angels  might  be 

48 


Alinari 


PLATE    IX.       TWO    ANGELS    15V    DA    VINCI 

IN  THK  ACCADEMIA,   FLORENCE 


A  MERE  CHILD 

the  work  of  Giotto,  or  Fra  Angelico — better  drawn  ; 
they  might  be  from  the  pencil  of  Raphael  or 
Correggio — with  less  mastery  of  technique.  They 
are  neither.  They  are  of  the  transition.  They 
are  Da  Vinci  of  Da  Vinci. 

These  two  beautiful  figures  are,  as  I  said,  a 
fragment  only  of  a  picture.  It  was  the  custom  of 
the  masters  to  employ  their  pupils  and  assistants 
upon  the  great  mural  decorations  which  they 
designed,  and  these  angels  were  Leonardo's  contri- 
bution to  Verrocchio's  painting  of  the  Baptism  of 
our  Lord.  It  was  a  good  begininng.  If  Leonardo 
was  a  mere  child,  as  Vasari  says,  at  the  time— 
what  shall  we  expect  of  him  when  he  comes  to  his 
full  strength  ?  To  the  beauty  of  Apollo,  and  the 
strength  of  Hercules,  will  he  now  add  the  wisdom 
of  Jove  ?  We  cannot  expect  more  of  him  than  he 
appears  to  have  expected  of  himself.  Dr.  Richter, 
in  his  delightful  life  of  Da  Vinci,  gives  an  amusing 
letter  from  the  young  man  to  his  patron,  the  Duke 
of  Milan,  recommendatory  of  himself.  It  is  too 
long  to  transcribe,  but  a  brief  summary  will  afford 
at  least  a  glimpse  of  the  confidence  with  which  he 
set  forth  in  life.  He  writes  : — 

"I.I  can  construct  bridges,  very  light,  and 
easy  to  carry — or  a  stronger  kind  to  resist  fire  and 
assault,  that  will  put  the  enemy  to  flight.  I  know 
ways  also  for  destroying  those  of  the  enemy. 

49 

5— (2389) 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

2.  In  case  of  investing  a  place  I  know  how  t< 
.remove  water,  and  make  scaling  ladders  and  othe 
instruments. 

3.  I  have  a  way  of  ruining  any  fortress  which  i 
not  on  stone  foundations. 

4.  I  can  also  make  cannon  which  will  discharge 
inflammable  matters,  and  strike  great  terror  int< 
the  enemy  by  their  smoke. 

5.  By    winding    passages    underground    I    cai 
contrive  a  way  under  rivers. 

6.  I    can   construct   engines   which    will   crasl 
through  the  enemies'  ranks,  so  that  the  infantn 
may  follow  without  impediment. 

7.  I  can  construct  cannon  to  be  not  only  usefu 
but  beautiful. 

8.  I  can  make  catapults,  mangonels,  and  thing: 
hitherto  unknown,  and  contrive  endless  means  o 
destruction. 

9.  And  if  the  fight  should  be  at  sea — (sicut  ante) 

10.  In  time  of  peace,  I  can  equal  any  man  ii 
architecture  and  engineering. 

11.  Then  I  can  execute  sculpture,  in  marble,  o; 
bronze,  or  terra-cotta  ;   also  I  can  do  as  much  ir 
painting  as  any  other,  be  he  who  he  may. 

12.  Moreover  (and  this  is  perhaps  the  fines 
touch  of  all)  I  would  engage  to  make  an  equestriar 
statue  to  the  lasting  memory  of  your  father." 

And  he  did  it  too  !     That  is  where  the  delighi 
of  the  thing  comes  in.     He  did  it.     For  the  Duk( 

5° 


THE  HORSE  AND  HIS  RIDER 

took  him  at  his  word.  Da  Vinci  built  bridges  ; 
circumvented  rivers  ;  made  cannon  beautiful  for 
ever  ;  even  the  equestrian  statue  came  off,  and  was 
counted  the  wonder  of  Milan,  for  it  was  twenty- 
six  feet  high,  and  stood  under  a  triumphal  arch — 
which,  of  course,  must  have  been  higher  still. 
Michael  Angelo  laughed  at  it  a  little — but  then 
Michael  Angelo  was  a  rude  Republican,  while  Da 
Vinci  went  with  the  King.  Even  that,  however, 
was  not  all ;  Da  Vinci  was  appointed  "  Master  of 
the  Ceremonies  "  to  the  Duke,  and — he  painted  a 
picture.  It  reads  a  little  like  the  old  epitaph  on 
the  lady,  famous  for  all  the  virtues,  who  was 
"  deeply  religious ;  also  she  painted  in  water 
colours  and  sent  several  pictures  to  the  exhibition. 
She  was  first  cousin  to  Lady  Jones  ;  and  of  such 
is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. "  Did  Michael  Angelo 
laugh  ?  Yes.  But  not  at  Da  Vinci's  picture — 
nor  is  the  laugh  against  Da  Vinci  now. 

The  equestrian  statue,  however,  did  not  stand 
under  its  triumphal  arch  very  long.  Before  the 
close  of  the  century,  in  spite  of  the  "  beautiful 
cannon  "  and  the  smoke  of  its  burning,  Louis  of 
France,  the  twelfth  Louis,  had  taken  the  city  ; 
Milan  was  annexed  to  the  French  crown  ;  the  horse 
and  his  rider  had  become  "  a  target  for  Gascon 
archers/'  It  is  true  that  a  little  later  the  French 
were  driven  out  by  the  Spaniards,  but  Da  Vinci 

5* 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

did  not  live  to  see  the  deliverance.  If  he  had  seen 
it  I  suppose  he  would  scarcely  have  rejoiced,  for 
he  had  become  the  friend  of  Louis.  Ah,  the 
changes  !  Italy  is  free  now,  and  an  Italian  painter 
would  no  more  take  service  under  a  French  usurper 
than  under  a  Spanish.  The  changes — did  I  say  ? 
What  is  left  of  Leonardo's  Milan  ?  Only  a 
cathedral  and  a  painting  on  a  convent  wall !  The 
cathedral  has  been  badly  finished.  It  is  hidden 
by  a  ghastly  structure,  known  as  the  West  Front, 
built  by  another  French  King — Napoleon.  The 
painting  has  almost  perished.  Is  it  for  this  that 
Hercules  is  strong  and  Apollo  beautiful  ?  Is  it 
for  this  that  youth  grows  into  manhood,  and  that 
kingdoms  are  annexed  ?  Let  us  forget  for  a 
moment  the  smoke  of  the  cannon — the  bridges— 
the  infernal  machines — and  the  annexations,  while 
we  look  at  Da  Vinci's  painting  of  the  Cenacolo  in 
the  Refectory  of  the  Convent  of  Santa  Maria  delle 
Grazie,  at  Milan. 

The  subject  of  the  picture  is  not  new.  It  is, 
indeed,  one  of  the  oldest  that  has  ever  been  chosen 
by  Christian  painters.  We  find  it  in  the  cata- 
combs of  Rome,  amongst  the  frescoes  of  the  second 
century — twelve  men,  seated  at  a  table,  with  One 
in  their  midst.  Before  Da  Vinci's  time  it  had 
become  the  favourite  decoration  for  the  refectory 
of  a  convent  or  monastery.  Da  Vinci's  picture 

52 


PLATE    X        THE   CHRIST    OF    DA    VINCI 


FROM  A  DRAWING  IN  THE 
ACCADEMIA,  MILAN 


THE  CHRIST  OF  DA  VINCI 

fills  the  end  wall  of  the  chamber,  raised  a  little 
above  the  dado,  so  that  every  one  seated  at  table 
may  see  it.  It  is  the  grace  before  meat  of  every 
feast.  In  one  of  the  earliest  of  the  frescoes  of  the 
catacombs  our  Lord  is  placed  as  in  Da  Vinci's 
picture,  with  six  of  the  disciples  at  each  side. 
There  is  nothing  original  in  that.  Moreover,  Da 
Vinci  has  taken  the  Likeness  of  Christ,  as  well  as 
the  curly  beard  of  Peter,  and  the  beardless  face  of 
John,  direct  from  these  first  records  of  Christian 
Art.  But  the  faces  of  the  Twelve  were  not  all 
known  to  the  worshippers  in  the  catacombs,  any 
more  than  they  were  known  to  the  monks  of  Milan. 
Da  Vinci  had  to  imagine  them  for  himself.  His 
conception  of  them  is,  perhaps,  the  highest — it  is 
certainly  one  of  the  highest — achievements  known 
in  the  world  of  Art.  In  the  ancient  fresco  ten  of 
the  figures  are  alike,  our  Lord,  St.  John,  and  St. 
Peter  alone  being  distinguished  by  any  attempt 
at  portraiture.  Da  Vinci  discriminated  between 
character  and  character.  There  was  the  impetuous 
Peter ;  there  was  Thomas,  who  once  doubted ; 
there  were  James,  and  Jude — the  Lord's  kinsmen. 
How  should  these  receive  the  words  which  must 
have  pierced  them  to  the  heart  ?  "  One  of  you 
shall  betray  me."  If  it  needs  a  great  painter  to 
represent  this  with  living  force,  it  needs  a  great 
poet  to  describe  it  in  words. 

The  poet  Goethe  has  rendered  us  this  service. 

53 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

I  have  not  space  in  which  to  give  Noehden's  trans- 
lation of  the  passage.  Moreover,  I  do  not  accept 
in  every  case  Goethe's  interpretation.  But,  avail- 
ing myself  of  the  poet's  insight,  I  will  follow  the 
beautiful  line  of  thought  he  has  indicated,  con- 
fessing that  if  I  have  varied  it  for  the  worse  the 
fault  is  mine,  the  merit  is  Goethe's. 

Note,  then,  how  the  Twelve  are  divided  into 
groups — corresponding  with  their  known  relations 
to  each  other.  Next  to  Christ — on  his  right — are 
John,  and  Peter,  and  Judas.  This  is  the  first 
group. 

Peter  has  risen  from  his  seat,  and  vehemently 
protests.  He  forgets  that  he  carries  a  sword — 
and  that  it  touches  Iscariot — the  very  sword 
which  a  few  hours  later,  at  Christ's  command,  he 
shall  put  back  into  its  sheath.  Judas,  conscience- 
stricken,  shrinks  from  the  Master.  See,  in  his 
sudden  movement  of  terror  he  has  overturned  a 
vessel,  and  the  salt  lies  scattered  on  the  table- 
but  he  still  clutches  the  purse  in  his  hand.  Peter 
lays  his  hand  on  John's  shoulder,  who  bends 
towards  him  to  listen.  The  quiet  of  John's  true 
heart  is  expressed  by  the  folding  of  his  hands. 

On  the  left  of  our  Lord  is  a  second  group. 
James  is  the  son  of  the  Virgin's  sister,  and  Da 
Vinci  has  expressed  this  in  the  likeness  of  his 
features  to  Christ.  James  is  a  prophet  also,  and 

54 


THE  CENACOLO 

,  stretches  out  his  arms  in  amazement  and  terror, 
as  one  who  sees  with  his  eyes  the  terrible  things 
which  shall  be.  Thomas  leans  over  towards  the 
Saviour,  raising  his  finger  as  if  in  remonstrance — 
the  finger  which  shall  some  day  touch  the  wounded 
side  and  be  satisfied.  Philip  bends  forward  also, 
his  hands  clasped  to  his  heart.  He  is  saying/'  It 
is  not  I,  Lord.  It  is  not  I,  Thou  knowest." 

Then  the  third  group — on  the  extreme  left  of 
our  Lord.  Matthew  turns  eagerly  to  his  two  com- 
panions, stretching  out  his  arms  in  passionate 
appeal.  With  what  consummate  art  this  simple 
action  unites  the  groups !  James,  the  son  of 
Zebedee,  betrays  doubt  and  suspicion,  and  his 
eyes  are  turned  towards  Judas,  as  though  he  were 
saying,  "  Did  I  not  always  suspect  ?  Did  I  not 
tell  you  ?  "  Simon,  the  oldest  of  the  disciples,  is 
troubled  and  full  of  thought.  Each  of  the  three 
in  some  subtle  form  conveys  the  idea  that  Iscariot 
is  in  their  thoughts. 

In  the  fourth  group  we  see  Bartholomew,  stand- 
ing at  the  end  of  the  table,  upon  which  he  leans  his 
hands,  looking  anxiously  towards  Matthew  and 
Simon,  as  though  he  would  cry  out  to  them  "What 
shall  we  answer  to  the  Lord  ?  '  Jude — the 
brother  of  James,  recognisable  again  by  his  like- 
ness to  Christ,  this  time  in  profile — lays  his  hand 
on  Peter,  as  Peter  lays  his  on  John,  so  that  with 
Andrew  and  Bartholomew  the  five  are  linked  to- 

55 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

gether  apart  from  Judas.  Andrew  expresses  with 
half-lifted  arms  and  out-spread  hands  the  fixed 
horror  with  which  he  is  seized. 

What  is  the  latest  achievement  in  modern  im- 
pressionism compared  with  this  ?  What  is  the 
"  square  touch  "  that  we  should  desire  it,  if  it  is 
to  forfeit  for  us  the  realization  through  Art  of  the 
passion  of  our  lives  ?  There  are  men  who  tell  us 
that  stories  must  not  be  told  in  Art — that  stories 
must  be  told  only  by  poets  and  novelists.  The 
blueness  of  the  sky ;  the  purple  of  shadows  cast 
by  the  sun  ;  the  texture  of  linen,  fine  or  coarse  ; 
these  are  the  things  to  which  the  painter  is  now 
invited  to  limit  himself.  Da  Vinci  has  taught  us 
a  higher  lesson.  He  has  taught  us  that  if,  where 
God  is,  there  are  angels — so,  where  Christ  is,  there 
are  men.  He  has  shown  us  that  love  can  be 
painted,  as  surely  as  sunshine  ;  hate,  as  surely  as 
shadow  ;  and  that  the  highest  impressionism  is 
not  the  impression  made  by  a  brushmark,  but  the 
'imprint  of  the  divine  nature  on  our  hearts. 

Da  Vinci's  picture  was  finished  towards  the 
close  of  the  century,  and  then  he  was  driven  by 
the  clash  of  arms,  from  Milan,  and  the  great  school 
he  had  founded  was  scattered.  Scattered,  but  not 
destroyed.  He  visited  Venice,  where  he  must  have 
met  the  young  Titian,  who  was  already  filling  the 
world  with  his  praise.  In  1501  he  visited  Urbino, 

56 


IN  EXILE 

where  Raphael  was  a  lad  of  eighteen.  Then  he 
travelled  through  Siena,  Orvieto,  Perugia,  Ra- 
venna, and  along  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic,  as 
engineer  of  that  terrible  scourge  of  Italy — Caesar 
Borgia.  Next  year  he  was  at  Florence,  renewing 
his  old  quarrel  with  Michael  Angelo.  In  1504  he 
returned  to  Milan,  by  that  time  under  the  rule  of 
the  French  ;  and  in  1519  he  died  in  exile,  at  the 
Chateau  Cloux,  near  Amboise,  which  had  been 
allotted  to  him  as  a  residence  by  his  friend  the  new 
King,  Francis  the  First. 

The  life  of  Da  Vinci  was  not  a  happy  life.  A 
cloud  hung  over  it  from  his  infancy.  Leonardo 
was  one  of  many  children — he  speaks  of  eleven 
brothers  and  sisters  —  but  although  brought 
up  with  them  in  his  father's  house,  and  allowed 
to  bear  his  father's  name,  his  mother  was  not 
recognised  as  one  of  the  family.  This  was  for 
the  boy  a  sadder  fate  than  that  which  befei 
Raphael,  who,  losing  his  mother,  the  gentle  Magia, 
by  death,  still  retained  for  her  the  tenderest 
memories.  Da  Vinci,  however,  never  abandoned 
the  unhappy  Caterina.  He  alone  of  all  her  kith 
and  kin  visited  her  in  her  misery,  and  rendered 
her  the  last  services  of  affection.  If  many  candles 
and  much  incense  can  carry  a  soul  to  heaven, 
Caterina  is  safe.  How  far  all  this  coloured  Da 
Vinci's  life  cannot  now  be  estimated.  We  read  of 

57 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

no  passionate  outburst,  such  as  we  find  in  the 
lives  of  most  painters  ;  no  love  story  as  in  the  life 
of  Raphael ;  no  pathetic  surrender  of  love  to 
honour,  as  in  the  life  of  Michael  Angelo  ;  no 
bereavement  of  wife  or  child  like  that  of  Titian  ; 
no  revolt  from  the  religion  of  his  fathers,  like  that 
of  Correggio.  Even  the  lightning  of  the  Reforma- 
tion, which  flashed  over  Europe  in  his  time,  left  him 
unscathed — content  to  be  a  philosopher  rather 
than  a  religionist.  If  Leonardo  Da  Vinci  had  been 
called  upon  to  describe  the  issue  of  his  life's  work, 
I  think  he  would  have  defined  it  as  from  first  to 
last  the  fine  flower  of  fine  scholarship. 

It  was  in  his  French  home  that  Da  Vinci  de- 
signed his  last  great  picture,  the  St.  Anna  with 
the  Virgin.  The  picture  itself,  if  ever  finished, 
counts  as  one  more  of  the  lost  treasures  of  Art. 
But  the  design  for  it  is  preserved  in  our  Royal 
Academy  in  London.  Through  the  courtesy  of 
the  President  and  Council  I  reproduce  it  here. 
The  beautiful  heads  of  mother  and  daughter  are 
finely  characteristic  of  the  painter.  As  in  the 
44  Last  Supper  "  he  has  given  to  the  Lord's  two 
cousins  the  reflex  of  the  likeness  of  Christ,  so  in 
the  lovely  face  of  Anna  we  find  the  reflex  of  the 
face  of  Mary.  I  think  Leonardo  must  have  been 
reading  those  lines  of  Dante  in  the  Paradiso — for 
Dante  was  to  the  painters  of  the  Renascence  what 

58 


PLATE    XII.       THE    VIRGIN    AND    HER    MOTHER 

FROM  A  DRAWING  BY  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 


HIS  LAST  PAINTING 

Shakespeare  is  to  us — where  he  describes  the 
Mother  of  our  Lord  amidst  the  chorus  of  the 
redeemed.  The  saintly  company  have  passed  into 
the  light  which  makes  the  Creator  visible  to  the 
creature.  They  are  singing.  The  sound  is  so  glad 
that  Dante  cries — 

It  is  the  Bride  of  God,  who  has  arisen 
With  matins  to  her  spouse  that  he  may  love  her-. 

Behold  the  hosts 

Of  Christ's  triumphal  march,  and  all  the  truits 
Harvested  by  the  rolling  of  the  years. 

It  is  amidst  these  hosts  that  he  sees  Anna 
seated — 

So  well  content  to  look  upon  her  daughter, 
That  her  eyes  move  not  even  while  she  sings. 

That  is  what  Da  Vinci  has  expressed  with 
infinite  sweetness  and  grace,  in  this,  the  loveliest 
of  his  drawings. 

And  yet  the  real  secret  of  Da  Vinci's  greatness 
as  a  painter  does  not  lie  in  the  grace  of  sweetness— 
in  which  Correggio  excelled,  nor  in  imaginative 
strength — in  which  he  was  surpassed  by  Michael 
Angelo.  How  shall  Apollo  be  one  and  the  same 
with  Hercules  ?  It  was  Hercules  wrho  violated 
Apollo's  shrine.  The  truth  is  that  painting  is 
an  affair  of  the  heart,  and  of  the  brain,  and  of  the 
perceptive  faculties.  Beauty  alone  will  not  satisfy 

59 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

Art,  nor  will  imagination.  Beauty  and  strength 
are  great  gifts,  but  they  are  not  everything.  Both 
Apollo  and  Hercules  were  sons  of  Jupiter,  and  yet 
Apollo  was  driven  from  Olympus,  and  Hercules 
died  miserably,  because  his  wife  gave  him  a  shirt 
not  properly  aired. 

I  know  that  this  is  not  Ovid's  way  of  telling 
the  story  of  the  Shirt  of  Nessus.  He  calls  it  a 
tunic,  and  says  that  it  was  poisoned.  But  it  is 
the  same  thing.  Besides,  Ovid  only  received  the 
story  second-hand — and  I  have  as  much  right  to 
my  interpretation  as  he  had.  I  wish  I  could  be 
as  sure  in  my  estimate  of  the  relation  in  which 
Leonardo  Da  Vinci  stands  to  the  Renascence  of 
Art  as  I  am  of  the  cause  of  Alcides's  death.  But 
unfortunately  it  is  not  possible  to  make  a  just 
comparison  between  Leonardo's  work  and  that 
of  his  great  contemporaries.  The  paintings  of 
Michael  Angelo  and  of  Correggio  may  be  counted 
by  the  score — of  Titian  and  Raphael  by  the 
hundred  ;  but  of  Da  Vinci's  there  remain  only  nine 
of  which  we  can  affirm  with  any  certainty  that  they 
came  from  his  hand.  And  of  these  the  chief,  the 
Cenacolo  in  the  refectory  at  Milan,  is  a  mere  wreck. 
And  yet  one  thing  is  certain.  The  man  who  was 
master  of  all  the  sciences — anatomy,  botany, 
chemistry,  acoustics,  optics,  dynamics,  statics, 
geology — the  man  who  was  architect,  engineer, 

60 


LIGHT  IN  THE  STUDIO 

alchemist,  poet,  grammarian,  satirist,  musician, 
sculptor — the  man  who,  after  four  hundred  years, 
is  recognised  with  Bacon  as  one  of  the  founders 
of  the  inductive  philosophy — whose  theories  on 
matter  are  still  counted  as  revelations  of  physical 
truths — whose  speculations  on  the  relation  of 
matter  to  mind  stand  on  a  level  with  the  highest 
that  have  yet  been  formulated — this  man,  this 
Leonardo  Da  Vinci,  passing  from  the  laboratory 
of  the  philosopher  to  the  studio  of  the  painter, 
was  indeed  like  Herakles  approaching  the  shrine 
of  Delphi — not  to  desecrate  it  by  plunder,  but  to 
enrich  it  with  new  gifts. 

And  the  gods  approved.  Apollo  made  no  resis- 
tance, nor  did  Jupiter  stay  his  course.  Leonardo 
Da  Vinci  irradiated  the  studio  with  the  light  of 
the  intellectual  life. 


61 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 


FRATE  DOMENICANINO.  What  do  you  want 
with  me  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO.     To  paint  you. 

IL  'CANINO.     How  much  will  you  pay  me  ? 

ANGELO.     A  scudo  a  day — or  more. 

IL  'CANINO.  Why  have  you  chosen  me  from  all 
the  Frari  to  paint  ? 

ANGELO.  Because  I  am  painting  a  devil 
driving  lost  souls  out  of  Paradise,  and  do  not  wish 
to  trust  entirely  to  my  imagination. 

IL  'CANINO.     7  will  come. 

(ExiT  FRA  DOMENICANINO.) 

A  MESSENGER.     But  men  should  be  as  the  gods. 

ANGELO.     I  do  not  always  find  them  so. 


Hanfstaengl 


PLATE  XIII.        FROM  A   PAINTING 
IN  THE  UFF1ZI,   FLORENCE 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 


O  great  men  make 
stirring  events  ?  or 
do  stirring  events 
make  great  men  ? 
When  Michael  An- 
gelo  began  his  life 
at  Castel  Caprese, 
a  little  Tuscan  vil- 
lage, in  1575,  the  /<f 
times  were  stirring 
indeed.  Italy,  di- 


vided by  civil  war,  rivalled  the  witches*  cauldron 
in  Macbeth.  "  Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf  " 
are  as  nothing  compared  to  the  "  hell-broth " 
which  was  brewing  there.  With  the  "  Domini 
canes  "  ravaging  the  flock  in  Rome  ;  with  Savona- 
rola strangled  and  burnt  in  the  streets  of  Florence  ; 

65 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

with  Louis  of  France  besieging  Milan  ;  with  Caesar 
Borgia  drowning  his  brother  in  the  Tiber ;  with 
Venice  and  Spain  in  league  against  Naples  ;  with 
one  Pope  poisoned  by  drinking  of  the  cup  he  had 
prepared  for  his  friend ;  with  another  preaching 
a  war  of  extermination  in  the  East ;  with  Torque- 
mada  practising  extermination  in  the  West ;  with 
the  Printing  Press  flashing  its  lightnings  from  the 
North  ;  with  Luther  thundering  at  the  doors  of 
the  Vatican  ; — it  seems  an  odd  thing  that  Art 
should  come  upon  the  scene.  And  yet  at  this 
crisis,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  hurly-burly,  three 
boys  are  born,  who — together  with  Da  Vinci  to 
lead  and  Correggio  to  follow — shall  complete  the 
roll-call  of  the  five  greatest  painters  the  world  has 
known. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  old  story  of  the  darkness  of 
night  making  the  brightness  of  the  stars.  But  I 
think  not.  The  day  has  come,  and  these  stars  are 
still  shining  in  the  heavens.  They  are  like — 

The  crowne  which  Ariadne  wore 
Upon  her  yvory  forehead — 
Being  now  placed  in  the  firmament. 

Moreover,  the  light  which  falls  from  them  has 
solved  again  the  old  riddle  which  we  could  never 
have  solved  for  ourselves  any  more  than  did  the 
Philistines — "  Out  of  Strength  came  forth  Sweet- 
ness. "  For  what  is  stronger  than  the  Sword  of 

66 


LEARNING  TO  SEE 

civil  war,  or  the  sleuth-hounds  of  the  Inquisition  ? 
—and  what  is  sweeter  than  the  Madonna  and 
Child  of  the  Renascence  ? 

Let  us  now  ask  ourselves  a  straight  question. 
Are  our  own  lives  complete  unless  we  take  into 
them  the  spirit  of  the  lives  of  the  great  painters  ? 
I  plead  for  the  study  of  Art  through  the  study  of 
the  mind  of  the  artist.  The  mind  of  the  true 
artist  is  at  the  same  time  the  simplest  and  the 
most  complex.  The  simplest,  because  it  deals 
with  nothing  except  as  a  unity  ;  the  most  complex, 
because  this  unity  must  contain  everything.  We 
cannot  all  attend  Schools  of  Art,  or  draw  from  the 
antique,  or  paint  from  the  life  ;  but  we  can  all 
learn  to  see  the  soul — and  to  see  the  soul  of  Michael 
Angelo  might  be  worth  more  to  some  of  us  than 
all  the  drawings  from  the  antique,  or  studies  from 
the  life,  that  Schools  of  Art  can  produce.  How 
shall  the  lover  of  Art  know  the  full  splendour  of 
his  mistress'  eyes  if  he  never  ventures  to  lift  her 
veil  ?  How  shall  we  understand  the  paintings  in 
the  Sistine  Chapel,  if  we  know  nothing  of  Michael 
Angelo's  thoughts  about  the  Dies  Ira  ?  There  is 
a  quaint  legend,  narrated  by  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton  as  one  which  Rossetti,  the  painter-poet, 
loved  to  repeat.  When  our  first  parents  were 
driven  from  Paradise,  God — always  tempering 
judgment  with  mercy — made  dim  within  their 
minds  the  memory  of  that  blissful  place.  And 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

when  sons  and  daughters  were  born  to  them,  these 
were  content  with  their  heritage,  not  knowing 
what  they  had  lost — and  Eve  was  content  with 
their  contentment.  But  after  many  years  of  a 
mother's  joys  and  sorrows,  Eve  gave  birth  to  a 
child  unlike  the  others — and  her  heart  was 
troubled.  For  this  child  would  be  found  listen- 
ing with  rapt  face  to  strains  of  divine  music  un- 
caught  by  Eve's  ear  now,  and  in  his  eyes  she  saw 
waving  branches  that  she  remembered  now  to  be 
the  long-forgotten  trees  of  Eden. 

Now  to  read  the  life  of  Michael  Angelo  is  to 
understand  the  legend.  Do  we  not  forget  ?  Are 
not  poets  and  painters  born  amongst  us  that  we 
may  see  and  remember  ?  If  our  sight  is  dim  for 
these  things,  and  our  memory  fails — is  it  not  well 
for  us  to  look  into  the  eyes  of  such  men  ? 

Michael  Angelo  Buonarroti  was  born  in  1475,  of 
a  good  family,  at  Cast  el  Caprese,  near  Arezzo. 
He  was  put  to  nurse  to  the  wife  of  a  stone-carver  ; 
and  long  years  afterwards  he  told  Vasari,  who  was 
born  in  the  same  district,  that  if  his  mind  was  good 
for  anything  he  owed  it  to  the  clear  air  of  the 
country,  and  to  the  milk  he  sucked  while  learning 
the  use  of  mallet  and  chisel.  The  boy  was  sent 
to  school  at  Florence,  but  made  little  progress  in 
book-learning  ;  and  at  the  age  of  thirteen  was 
apprenticed  to  Ghirlandaio — who  was  then  en- 

68 


THE  GARLAND  MAKER 

gaged  upon  the  frescoes  of  the  church  of  the 
Dominicans — Santa  Maria  Novella.  Ghirlandaio, 
I  say,  though  that  was  not  really  his  name.  How 
many  of  the  painters  of  Italy  ever  did  bear  their 
real  names  ?  His  name  was  Bigordi,  and  "  Ghirl- 
andaio "  simply  means  "  the  maker  of  garlands/' 
The  finest  garland  Ghirlandaio  ever  made  he  now 
wears  himself,  in  being  accounted  the  Master  of 
Buonarroti. 

It  is  again  the  old  story  of  Verrocchio  and  Da 
Vinci — master  and  pupil — "  The  youngster  knows 
more  than  I."  In  the  studio  of  Ghirlandaio  the 
lad  displayed  such  extraordinary  virility  that  he 
is  said  to  have  had  no  infancy  in  Art.  He  did  not 
even  complete  his  apprenticeship,  but  while  still 
a  child  passed  to  the  care  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnifi- 
cent, who  educated  him  with  his  own  sons.  It  was 
in  the  old  studio  in  the  Gardens  of  the  Medici, 
which  five  and  twenty  years  before  had  been 
allotted  to  Leonardo  Da  Vinci,  that  Michael 
Angelo,  in  his  turn,  studied  the  antique.  The 
stress  and  strain  of  life  came  upon  him  more  swiftly 
than  upon  most  children,  for  in  this  companion- 
ship with  the  Medici  he  met  the  greatest  spirits  of 
the  age,  who  graced  the  court  of  "  The  Father  of 
Letters."  But  the  young  man  proved  worthy  of 
the  affection  of  Lorenzo,  and  returned  it.  These 
happy  days  laid  the  foundation  of  his  life's  work 
on  the  finest  lines  of  truth  and  honour. 

69 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

But  I  am  not  writing  the  life  of  Michael  Angelo. 
My  purpose  is  rather  to  consider  the  relation  in 
which  he  stands  to  the  Art  of  the  Renascence,  to  his 
companions,  to  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  For 
this,  something  more  is  necessary  than  the  record- 
ing of  incidents  and  dates.  If  I  were  the  idlest  of 
idle  fellows,  or  the  busiest  of  busy  men,  or  the 
hardest  worked  parson  or  lawyer  or  doctor  in  the 
land,  I  would  not  be  content  without  I  could  claim 
participam&nto  with  a  mind  so  fine  as  his.  In 
my  journey  to  London  every  morning  I  would 
take  in  my  hand  a  talisman,  in  the  shape  of  a 
book,  by  virtue  of  which  the  train  should  carry 
me  through  the  village  where  Michael  Angelo  was 
born,  to  Florence  where  he  was  educated.  I  should 
pass  Santa  Maria  Novella  on  the  way,  and  look 
in  at  Ghirlandaio's  studio.  The  campanile  of 
\Yestminster,  seen  through  the  mist,  would  serve 
as  Giotto's  tower.  The  Old  Kent  Road  would  lie 
under  the  Surrey  Hills  as  the  narrow  streets  of 
Bologna  lie  under  the  shadow  of  the  Apennines. 
Our  beautiful  Thames  would  remind  me  of  Venice 
where  the  silent  highways  are — or  were — as  of 
crystal.  And  then,  at  some  hour  of  the  day,  I 
would  contrive  to  visit  the  National  Gallery,  and 
stand  for  a  little  while  before  his  last  great  work- 
it  is  but  a  fragment,  for  the  brush  fell  from  his 
hand  before  it  was  finished.  Finally,  on  my  way 
home,  I  would  take  the  book  in  my  hand  again, 

70 


H&nfstaengl 


PLATE   XIV.       HOLY    FAMILY 


FROM  A  PAINTING  BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO 
IN  THE  UFFIZI,   FLORENCE 


PARTICIPAMENTO 

instead  of  the  evening  paper,  and  visit  the  marble 
quarries  of  Carrara,  where  Michael  Angelo  was 
engineer ;  inspect  the  fortifications  of  Florence, 
where  he  was  soldier ;  follow  his  grave  footsteps 
into  the  Sistine  Chapel,  where  he  was  painter ; 
linger  with  him  over  his  books,  for  he  was  poet 
and  scholar ;  observe  his  mastery  of  mallet  and 
chisel,  for  he  was  sculptor  ;  examine  his  model 
for  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  of  which  he  was  archi- 
tect ;  and  through  all  this  I  should  learn  to  love 
and  reverence  the  man  for  his  integrity,  his  filial 
tenderness,  his  fraternal  faithfulness,  his  kindness 
to  dependants,  his  loyalty  to  duty.  Perhaps  I 
might  even  understand  his  meaning  when  he 
wrote  :  "  Borne  away  upon  a  fragile  bark,  amidst 
a  stormy  sea,  I  am  reaching  the  common  haven 
to  which  every  man  must  come,  to  give  account 
of  the  evil  and  good  he  has  done.  Now  I  see  how 
my  soul  fell  into  the  error  of  making  Art  her 
sovereign  lord.  Thoughts  of  love,  and  fond 
fancies,  what  will  become  of  you  when  I  approach 
a  double  death — one  certain,  the  other  threatening. 
Neither  painting  nor  sculpture  will  then  avail  to 
calm  my  soul.  I  turn  to  Thee,  O  God." 

By  this  time  I  should  have  reached  home,  and 
dinner  would  be  upon  the  table.  But  I  should 
have  had  a  day  with  Michael  Angelo  ;  and  should 
ask  the  friend  who  sat  next  to  me  :  "  Have  you 
read  M.  Clement's  book  ?  " 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

Angelo,   the   Painter — Angelo,   the   Sculptor— 
Angelo,  the  Architect — which  was  the  greatest  ? 
Happily  it  is  not  necessary  for  us  to  determine. 
Let  us  be  content  to  see  a  little  of  his  work  in  each 
of  these  three  phases. 

The  Sculptor  shall  come  first — for  his  life  begins 
with  it.  He  was  scarcely  out  of  his  teens  when 
he  made  the  "  Sleeping  Cupid/'  It  was  so  beauti- 
ful that  he  was  advised  to  bury  it,  so  as  to  give  it 
the  appearance  of  age,  and  then  to  dig  it  up  and 
send  it  to  Rome  as  a  newly  discovered  antique. 
The  thing  was  done,  and  Cardinal  San  Giorgio  was 
deceived  ;  but  Michael  Angelo  was  not  a  party  to 
the  fraud.  The  Cardinal,  who  had  purchased  the 
statue,  received  his  money  again  in  full ;  and 
satisfied  as  to  the  integrity  of  the  young  sculptor, 
invited  him  to  Rome. 

In  Rome,  under  his  chisel,  marble  began  to  live. 
While  yet  in  the  vigour  of  youth,  he  had  become 
famous.  The  Pieta,  now  in  St.  Peter's,  the  figures 
in  the  Library  of  the  Duomo  at  Siena,  the  Adonis 
of  the  Ufnzi,  the  Cupid  at  South  Kensington,  were 
all  of  this  period.  But  it  was  at  Florence  that  he 
achieved  his  greatest  triumph  in  sculpture.  There 
lay  in  the  city,  near  the  church  of  Santa  Maria 
Novella,  a  huge  block  of  marble.  It  was  suitable 
for  one  purpose  only — the  carving  of  a  colossal 
statue.  Sculptor  after  sculptor  had  tried  their 

72 


AS  A  SCULPTOR 

hands  upon  it,  but  without  success.  Indeed,  after 
a  time  the  attempt  had  been  abandoned.  In- 
competent hands  had  hewed  and  hacked  the 
enormous  mass  of  stone,  until  it  was  worse  than 
shapeless — it  was  misshapen.  At  last  Michael 
Angelo  was  commissioned  to  take  it  in  hand. 
What  a  task  lay  before  him  !  Within  the  mis- 
shapen outline  of  that  block  of  marble  lay  poten- 
tially the  true,  the  divine  beauty  of  form,  if  only 
he  could  conceive  it. 

Michael  Angelo  began  by  building  a  house  over 
the  stone  ;  and  in  that  house  he  shut  himself  up 
for  eighteen  months  with  his  great  task,  permitting 
no  one  to  see  what  he  was  doing.  At  length  the 
statue  was  finished,  the  citizens  were  admitted, 
and  lo  !  the  figure  of  David — the  sublime  figure 
which  is  now  one  of  the  glories  of  Florence. 

The  story  is  so  well  known  that  I  should  not 
repeat  it,  were  it  not  in  itself,  like  one  of  the  old 
miracle  plays,  a  "  mystery  "  with  a  "  revelation." 
It  is  a  true  story,  but  it  is  nevertheless  a  parable. 
Like  the  block  of  marble,  Art  had  been  lying  dead 
for  more  than  a  thousand  years.  The  painters  of 
the  Awakening  had  sought  to  give  it  shape.  Fra 
Angelico  had  perhaps  seen  something  of  the  divine 
beauty  into  which  it  might  be  fashioned.  But  it 
was  the  Renascence  that  gave  it  life — the  new  life 
—the  life  by  virtue  of  which  it  has,  like  David, 
slain  the  giants. 

73 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

But  Michael  Angelo  had  still  to  reckon  with  the 
critics.  The  critics  we  have  always  with  us,  and 
this  figure  of  David  has  proved  a  boccata  to  them. 
One  assures  us  that  "  it  surpasses  all  other  statues, 
ancient  or  modern  ;  "  that  it  is  "  divine  ;  "  that 
"  never  before  or  since  has  there  been  produced  so 
fine  an  attitude,  so  perfect  a  grace,  such  beauty  of 
head,  and  feet  and  hands/'  Another  declares 
"  that  the  figure  is  an  outrage  on  ordinary  human 
proportions;  that  the  parts  belong  neither  to 
each  other  nor  to  the  body,  and  that  the  head,  the 
neck,  the  feet,  the  hands,  are  alike  monstrous.0 
A  third  critic,  with  a  caution  which  contrasts  finely 
with  the  confidence  of  his  fellows,  assures  us  that 
it  is  indeed  "  a  grand  statue/'  but  that  its  grand- 
ness  is  the  "  grandeur  of  spirit." 

Now  Michael  Angelo  had  a  way  of  his  own  in 
dealing  with  the  critics.  When  the  David  was 
finished  there  was  a  "  private  view,"  and  the  chief 
of  the  Republic  of  Florence  came  to  inspect  the 
statue.  The  Gonfaloniere  thought — he  thought,. 
mind — he  merely  threw  out  the  suggestion — he 
thought  that  the  nose  was — well,  perhaps  the  nose 
was  a  leetle  (or  its  equivalent  in  the  dialect  of  the 
time)  a  leetle  too  large  for  perfect  beauty.  Have 
we  not  heard  it  a  thousand  times  ?  Do  wre  not 
read  it  every  day  in  the  Press  ?  Michael  Angelo- 
ascended  the  scaffold,  and  taking  in  his  hand  a 
chisel — which  was  very  visible  to  the  Gonfaloniere 

74 


THE  SISTINE  CHAPEL 

— and  a  little  marble  dust — which  was  invisible — 
rubbed  the  dust  gently  upon  the  offending  nose. 
No  doubt  a  sprinkling  of  it  fell  into  the  Gonfalo- 
niere's  eyes.  But  it  was  enough,  the  critic  was 
satisfied.  "  Admirable/'  exclaimed  Solderini,  as 
the  sculptor  descended.  '  What  a  quantity  of 
stuff  you  have  taken  off — you  have  given  the 
thing  life/1  "  But/1  says  Michael  Angelo,  "it 
does  not  matter.  It  is  the  natural  fate  of  critics 
to  speak  of  things  they  do  not  understand."  It 
never  occurred  to  Michael  Angelo's  critic,  in  his 
satisfaction  at  the  "  quantity  taken  off "  that  as 
the  real  David  had  been  delivered  out  of  the  paw 
of  the  lion  and  out  of  the  paw  of  the  bear,  so  the 
statue  of  David  was  delivered  out  of  the  hand  of 
the  Philistine. 

Angelo  returned  from  Florence  to  Rome,  and 
was  soon  engaged  in  the  great  work  of  his  life — 
the  decoration  of  the  Sistine  Chapel.  He  hesitated 
at  first  to  attempt  so  stupendous  a  task,  declaring 
to  the  Pope  that  he  was  a  sculptor,  not  a  painter. 
But  Julius  insisted,  and  the  frescoes  were  begun 
in  1508.  That  very  summer  the  young  Raphael 
was  summoned  to  Rome,  and  began  his  frescoes 
in  the  Loggia  and  Stanze  of  the  Vatican.  They 
were  not  very  far  apart  in  age — Angelo  was  thirty- 
three,  and  Raphael  twenty-five.  But  how  differ- 
ent were  the  two  men  in  temperament !  The 

75 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

younger — joyous,  frank,  full  of  the  delight  of  life  ; 
the  elder — taciturn,  introspective,  and  troubled 
with  anxious  thought.  Vasari  tells  us  that  when 
the  scaffolding  was  prepared  for  Angelo  in  the 
Sistine  Chapel  he  shut  himself  up — as  he  did  in 
Florence  when  engaged  upon  the  statue  of  David— 
permitting  no  assistant  to  enter,  even  to  grind  his 
colours  or  to  prepare  the  walls  with  plaster.  From 
daybreak  till  the  darkness  of  evening  fell  upon  his 
work  he  never  left  the  place — sometimes  even 
sleeping  there  throughout  the  night — content  with 
a  little  food  brought  to  him  once  only,  at  the  close 
of  day. 

The  subject  of  this  great  series  of  frescoes  is 
the  Creation,  and  Fall,  and  Redemption  of  Man. 
We  see  the  Separation  of  Day  and  Night — the 
Gathering  of  the  Waters — the  Expulsion  from 
Paradise — the  Deluge — the  Brazen  Serpent- 
David  and  Goliath — Judith  and  Holofernes.  The 
lunettes  are  filled  with  groups  of  the  ancestors  of 
Christ.  Between  the  windows  are  colossal  figures 
of  the  Prophets  and  Sibyls,  who  foretold  the 
coming  of  the  Saviour. 

The  Sibyls  !  Does  the  word  fall  upon  our  ears 
like  a  false  note  in  music.  Who  were  the  Sibyllae, 
that  they  should  figure  in  the  decoration  of  a 
Christian  temple  ?  What  have  they  to  do  with 

76 


PLATE   XV.       A   SIBYL,    FROM   THE   SIST1NE   CHAPEL 


THE  STORY  OF  SIBYL 

the  story  of  the  Cross  ?  Michael  Angelo  tells  us 
in  these  frescoes.  They  are  amongst  the  dramatis 
persona  of  the  great  tragedy — or  comedy — Dante 
called  it  a  comedy  but  Michael  Angelo  is  not  quite 
sure  which — of  life.  It  began  with  the  first  fiat 
of  Creation — "  Let  there  be  light/1  and  it  will  end 
only  with  the  final  triumph  of  the  redeemed,  or 
the  last  wail  of  the  damned  as  they  are  driven  into 
Charon's  boat.  It  is  a  curious  medley  of  Pagan 
and  Christian  religious  sentiment — but  it  is  a 
drama  from  which  no  character  or  incident  can  be 
omitted.  We  of  the  twentieth  century,  who  do 
not  believe  in  Charon's  boat — who  believe  nothing 
indeed  unless  we  think  it  is  proved — find  it  hard 
to  understand  the  ready  acceptance  by  the  painters 
of  the  Renascence  of  the  strange  sights  which 
appear  as  nebulae  on  the  horizon  of  Art.  The 
nebula  of  the  Sibyls,  however,  in  Michael  Angelo' s 
vision  is  resolved  into  stars.  We  smile  at  the 
legend  of  the  Sibylline  books  but  we  often  find 
them  useful  when  we  would  "  point  a  moral  or 
adorn  a  tale."  Whether  we  regard  the  visit  of 
^Eneas  to  the  "  pale  prophetess  "  at  Cumae  as 
poetry,  like  the  visit  of  Macbeth  to  the  weird 
sisters  of  Fores — or  as  history,  like  that  of  Saul  to 
the  Witch  of  Endor — how  delightful,  and  tender, 
and  full  of  adventure,  is  the  story  as  Virgil  tells  it 
in  the  third  book  of  the  Jinead.  What  a  novel  it 
would  make  for  Mudie's — with  incidents  as  pathetic 

77 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

as  the  visit  of  Leonore  to  the  old  Colonel  in  the 
Newcomes — as  stirring  as  the  sacrifice  of  Sidney 
Carton  in  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities — as  reconciliatory 
of  philosophy  and  man,  as  were  Roland  and  Austin 
in  the  Caxtons.  Sibyl  was  the  daughter  of  Tiresias, 
the  Oracle  of  the  temple  of  Thebes.  I  say  Sibyl 
now,  as  Virgil  does,  rather  than  Sibyllae,  because 
it  is  her  personality  that  is  interesting,  not  the 
order  to  which  she  belongs.  She  is  the  true 
Hellenic  type,  as  Dinah  Morris  is  the  English  type, 
of  a  lovely  woman  who  has  seen  too  much  of  the 
gods.  Not  too  much  of  God,  but  of  the  gods — the 
priests  of  the  temple,  the  Methodist  preacher,  the 
squire  parson — and  must  deliver  her  soul  or  die. 
When  Apollo  fell  in  love  with  her,  she  only  asked 
that  she  might  live  as  many  years  as  there  were 
grains  of  dust  in  her  hand.  Surely,  a  modest 
request.  We  ask  for  life  everlasting.  Sibyl's 
prayer  was  granted — but  she  had  forgotten  one 
thing.  We  forget  a  good  many.  She  forgot  to 
stipulate  that  she  should  retain  her  youth  and 
beauty.  Like  Oliver  Twist  she  should  have  asked 
for  "  more/'  When  ^Eneas  saw  her,  seven  hun- 
dred years  afterwards,  she  was  old  and  ugly,  and 
had  still  three  hundred  years  to  live — for  the  grains 
of  dust  in  her  hand  proved  to  be  a  thousand. 
Sibyl  appears  to  have  become  a  little  incoherent 
as  an  Oracle — for  Virgil  calls  her  "  the  mad  pro- 
phetess " — which  is  worse  than  calling  her  pale. 


THE  BENEDICITE  IN  FRESCO 

She  writes  her  predictions  on  loose  leaves — frag- 
ments of  papyrus  I  suppose — and  arranges  them 
carefully  at  the  entrance  to  the  cave.  There  they 
lie — until  the  wind  blows  ! — and  then — 

She  to  the  Fates  commits  her  scattered  verse 
Nor  sets  in  order  what  the  winds  disperse. 

Sibyl  mistakes  ^Eneas  for  a  ghost,  and  when  he 
approaches  in  his  shining  armour,  with  his  Trojan 
shield,  she  has  scarcely  strength  to  guide  him  to 
Avernus,  on  his  way  to  the  Elysian  Fields — where 
he  will  be  welcomed  by  Anchises,  his  aged  father, 
whom  he  rescued  from  the  flames.  There  also 
he  will  meet  Achilles,  and  Pyrrhus,  and  Orestes, 
and  Hector,  and  Andromache,  and  Helen's  lovely 
daughter — who  would  not  marry  Pyrrhus— even 
though  he  had  yellow  hair,  and  Helen  herself— 
whom  she,  Sibyl,  hopes  to  see  some  day — when 
the  weary  round  of  those  three  hundred  years 
have  been  accomplished. 

But  it  is  not  for  the  sake  of  the  beautiful  verse 
of  Virgil  or  Homer  that  the  Sibyllae  take  their 
place  in  the  Chapel  of  the  Vatican.  They  repre- 
sent the  tribute  of  the  Pagan  world  to  the 
Redeemer.  Have  we  not  the  same  thing  in  the 
poetry  of  the  Church  ?  Do  we  not  sing  hymns 
that  claim  the  universe  for  God — spiritual  and 
material,  animate  and  inanimate  ?  "  The  king- 

79 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

doms  of  the  world  have  become  the  kingdom 
of  our  Lord  and  of  His  Christ/1  Is  it,  then,  a 
strange  thing  to  find  the  Benedicite  in  fresco, 
as  well  as  in  Latin  ?  L  an  date  Dominum  in 
excelsis  omnes  angeli.  Yes — but  it  is  not  the 
angels  alone  who  are  to  praise  Him,  it  is  sol  et 
lima  ;  and  not  only  sun  and  moon,  but  dracones 
et  omnes  abyssi ;  and  not  only  dragons  and  all 
deeps,  but — here  Michael  Angelo's  translation 
comes  in — Laudate  Dominum,  omnes  sibyllce. 

The  Sibylline  books  form  no  part  of  our  faith— 
they  are  declared  to  be  forgeries  of  the  second  or 
third  centuries.  But  the  argument  for  their  re- 
jection is  not  flattering  to  the  early  Fathers  of  the 
Church.  It  is  that  they  cannot  be  true  because 
they  speak  so  plainly  of  our  Saviour,  of  His  suffer- 
ings, and  of  His  death,  that  they  must  have  been 
written  as  a  pious  fraud,  in  order  to  convince  the 
heathen  of  His  divinity — just  as  His  Likeness  is 
said  to  have  been  invented  in  order  to  convince 
them  of  His  humanity.  There  are,  of  course,  spu- 
rious gospels,  just  as  there  are  spurious  likenesses 
—but  before  assuming  that  a  so  called  prophecy 
written  after  the  event  is  necessarily  fraudulent, 
it  may  be  worth  while  to  consider  whether  it  was 
written  as  a  prophecy  at  all,  or  not  rather  as  a 
poem.  Look  at  the  Lybian  Sibyl.  The  book  she 
carries  is  open  before  our  eyes,  and  yet  we  can- 
So  * 


S3 

H    ^ 

£j  2 

O    t/5 


w  3 
a  o 


THE  STORY  OF  PROMETHEUS 

not  read  it.  Ah,  if  only  we  could  turn  the  leaves, 
and  tell  what  lies  in  the  lap  of  the  gods  for  the 
land  of  which  she  is  the  Oracle.  For  the  Libyan 
Sibyl  is  the  Oracle  of  Africa. 

In  the  Sistine  Chapel,  however,  the  Sibyls  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  future — they  are  only 
memories  of  the  past.  Let  us  turn  to  another  of 
Michael  Angelo's  imaginings. 

Adam  lies  prone  upon  the  earth.  God  has  made 
man,  but  has  not  yet  breathed  into  him  the  breath 
of  life.  Now  the  Creator  stretches  out  his  hand, 
and  with  a  touch  the  man  lives.  It  is  the  old 
Promethean  story — Non  m — non  dolo — sed  dono. 
Not,  that  is,  by  force,  nor  by  fraud,  but  by  free  gift. 
Prometheus  could  make  a  man — of  clay ;  but  he 
could  not  make  him  live.  He  attempted  to  buy 
the  divine  flame — but  Heaven  cannot  be  bribed. 
He  would  have  taken  it  by  force — and  was  hurled 
from  Olympus.  The  Creator  is  "The  Word/'  and 
"  The  Word  was  made  man/'  But  not  the  Man 
of  Sorrows.  Around  him,  under  the  shadow  of 
the  Almighty,  are  the  young-eyed  cherubim — the 
symbol,  that,  is  of  the  eternal  renewing  of  youth. 
If  there  is  a  touch  of  paganism  in  all  this,  it  is  the 
paganism  of  the  Renascence.  If  it  represents  only 
the  twilight  of  our  Faith,  it  is  not  a  twilight  passing 
into  darkness,  but  that  which  shineth  more  and 
more  unto  the  perfect  day. 

81 

7— (2389) 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

And  as  the  work  goes  on,  for  five  long  years,  the 
Pope  begins  to  grow  impatient,  fearing  that  he 
will  not  live  to  see  it  finished  ;  and  Raphael,  from 
time  to  time,  lays  down  his  palette  in  the  Stanza 
where  he  is  painting,  to  come  and  see  the  new 
creation  which  is  springing  from  Angelo's  pencil. 
In  1512  the  vaulting  is  complete,  but  the  Pope  is 
dead,  and  the  great  east  wall,  which  was  to  be  the 
crown  and  glory  of  the  design,  stands  blank.  It 
can  wait.  Leo,  and  Adrian,  and  Clement,  follow 
Julius  at  the  Vatican  ;  and  die,  as  Julius  died. 
But  the  wall  waits.  Da  Vinci  dies.  Raphael  dies. 
Correggio  dies.  Angelo  and  Titian  alone  of  the 
five  great  painters  remain,  and  they  are  both  of 
them  advanced  in  years.  But  the  wall  waits.  At 
last,  after  waiting  for  more  than  twenty  years,  the 
scaffolding  again  creeps  up  from  floor  to  ceiling  ; 
and  Michael  Angelo,  an  old  man  now,  is  at  work 
once  more  in  the  Sistine  Chapel.  "  The  Day  of 
Judgment  "  is  begun. 

The  fresco  of  the  Dies  Ira  fills  the  whole  of  the 
east  end  of  the  chapel,  and  contains  myriads  of 
figures.  In  the  centre  is  our  Lord,  coming  with 
clouds,  which  are  rent  asunder  as  he  approaches- 
revealing  Heaven  beyond.  On  his  right,  clinging 
to  his  side,  is  the  Mother.  Around  Him  are  the 
countless  host  of  the  redeemed — the  patriarchs, 
the  prophets,  the  saints,  the  martyrs — each  with 

82 


PLATE    XVII.       THE    DIES 


FROM    THE    PAINTING    BY    MICHAEL 
ANGELO     IN    THE    SISTINE    CHAPEL 


THE  DIES 

His  insignia  of  glory  or  of  martyrdom.  At  his  feet 
is  the  Recording  Angel,  and  the  angels  whose 
trumpets  shall  wake  the  dead.  The  outcasts  from 
Heaven  are  hurled  headlong  from  His  presence. 
They  fall  into  the  river  of  Death,  where  Charon's 
boat  awaits  them,  and  Charon  with  his  oar  dashes 
them  to  pieces  like  a  potter's  vessel.  But  the  one 
figure  which  arrests  attention  is  that  of  Christ. 
How  shall  that  be  described  ? 

In  approaching  such  a  subject  as  the  Dies  Irce 
one  must  move  with  careful  steps.  Almost  every 
writer  seems  to  come  with  some  preconceived  idea, 
that  gives  a  false  bias  to  his  judgment.  One 
popular  author  describes  the  figure  of  Christ  as 
"  a  thundering  athlete — a  nude,  wrathful,  giant, 
without  one  touch  of  pity  or  mercy  in  him  "  —and 
condemns  it  as  partly  the  cause,  and  partly  the 
effect,  of  the  cruel,  dark  views .  of  Christianity 
which  prevailed  in  the  sixteenth  century.  "  What 
a  chasm/'  he  says,  "  separates  the  Christ  of  the 
Sistine  Chapel,  from  the  Fair  Shepherd  of  the 
Catacombs."  Yes,  but  then  what  a  chasm  sepa- 
rates also  Heaven  from  Hell. 

It  is  the  common  failure  of  amateur  criticism 
to  look  for  qualities  in  a  work  of  art  which  are 
incompatible  with  the  artist's  primary  intention. 
I  have  noticed  that  while  every  great  painter  in 
Christendom  has  represented  our  Lord  under  the 
same  likeness,  the  question  is  perpetually  raised 

83 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

as  to  which  of  all  the  likenesses  is  most  like.  Of 
one  picture  it  will  be  said  that  the  eyes  are  too 
stern — forgetting  that  they  are  the  eyes  of  Christ 
when  he  was  rebuking  the  Pharisees.  Of  another, 
that  the  eyes  are  too  tender — forgetting  that  they 
are  the  eyes  of  Christ  comforting  the  women  who 
wept  to  see  Him  fall  beneath  the  cross.  Of  still 
another,  that  the  face  is  passionless — forgetting 
that  in  it  the  eyes  are  fast  closed  in  death.  When 
Michael  Angelo  paints  the  Infant  Saviour,  caressed 
by  Mary  and  Joseph,  he  represents  him  as  a  happy 
child.  When  he  paints  "  The  Word  "  as  Creator, 
he  expresses  strength  and  benignity.  When  the 
dead  Christ  lies  once  more  upon  His  mother's  knee, 
he  shows  "  the  pity  of  it."  When  Christ  rises  to 
judge  the  world  Michael  Angelo  represents  him  as 
the  Avenger.  Did  the  beloved  disciple  darken 
the  imagination  of  Christendom  ?  And  yet  he 
writes — "  Behold  He  cometh  with  clouds  ;  and 
every  eye  shall  see  Him  ;  and  all  the  kindreds  of 
the  earth  shall  bewail  because  of  Him.  Even  so, 
come.  Amen."  That  is  what  Michael  Angelo  has 
painted. 

But  Michael  Angelo  did  not  reject  the  commonly 
received  Likeness  of  our  Blessed  Lord.  On  the 
contrary  he  accepted  it  as  the  true  Likeness,  fol- 
lowing it  humbly  in  every  particular.  The  head 
on  plate  XVIII.  is  from  his  last  painting— The  En- 

84 


PLATE   XVIII.       THE   CHRIST    OF    MICHAEL    ANGELO 


FROM  THE  PAINTING  IN 
THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY 


THE  CHRIST  OF  MICHAEL  ANGELO 

tombment,  now  in  our  National  Gallery.  Compare 
it  with  the  Christ  of  the  Veronicas,  plate  V.  from 
St.  Silvestro,  Rome,  and  it  will  be  seen  that  they 
are  alike.  Line  for  line  a  tracing  of  one  is  indis- 
tinguishable from  a  tracing  of  the  other.  Just  as 
Da  Vinci,  in  his  fresco  of  the  Last  Supper,  followed 
the  earliest  records  of  Christian  Art,  so  Angelo 
takes  as  his  model  an  old  relic  of  the  catacombs. 
Think  of  it !  Michael  Angelo  searching  for  the 
Likeness  of  Christ,  finds  it,  not  in  the  splendid 
visions  of  his  imagination,  but  in  a  rude  drawing 
by  an  unknown  artist,  on  a  face-cloth  taken  from 
the  grave  of  one  of  the  first  martyrs. 

How  is  it  then  that  this  great  painter,  knowing 
the  Likeness,  and  following  it  in  all  his  other 
paintings  and  sculptures,  in  this  one  picture  of 
the  Dies  Ircey  did  not  follow  it  ?  It  is  because  the 
figure  of  Christ  in  the  Dies  Irce  is  intended  by  him 
to  be  a  symbol  only.  Looking  back  into  the  in- 
finite past,  or  forward  into  the  infinite  future,  the 
painter  sees  Christ — but  sees  no  marks  of  the 
passion,  no  pain,  no  sorrow,  no  suffering,  no  infirm- 
ity of  the  flesh — but  Christ  related  to  us  only 
through  the  taking  upon  himself  of  our  nature. 
Instead  therefore  of  a  likeness  the  figure  becomes 
a  symbol — as  frankly  a  symbol  as  are  the  first  two 
letters  of  his  name,  XP,  or  the  word  TX0TC, 
the  sacred  acrostic,  or  the  figure  of  a  lamb.  It  is 

85 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

true  that  the  symbol  chosen  by  Michael  Angelo  is 
greater  than  these,  and  more  worthy  of  the 
Redeemer — that  is  only  in  accordance  with  the 
genius  of  the  painter.  Michael  Angelo  was  not 
content  to  paint  a  letter  of  the  Greek  alphabet 
judging  the  world. 

The  glory  of  imagination  came  to  Art,  then, 
through  Michael  Angelo — as  it  had  come  to  Poetry 
through  Dante.  Heaven  and  earth  and  hell  alike 
yielded  tribute  to  his  genius.  Angels,  and  men, 
and  devils,  were  marshalled  before  him  in  visionary 
procession.  Let  us  turn  for  a  moment  from  these 
wonderful  pictures,  to  the  man  himself,  as  he 
stands,  his  palette  in  his  hand,  on  the  scaffold  in 
the  Sistine  Chapel.  Vasari,  who  knew  him  well, 
describes  him  to  us.  A  man  of  spare  form,  broad 
shoulders,  medium  height.  His  forehead  square 
and  ample — with  seven  strong  lines  across  it.  His 
nose  is  finely  formed — but  bears  the  mark  of  a 
blow,  accidentally  inflicted  by  the  mallet  of  a 
fellow  student.  His  eyes  are  not  large  ;  they  are 
blue — no  !  the  blue  is  dashed  with  brown — and 
they  are  dominated  by  great  eyebrows.  His  lips 
are  thin — the  lower  lip  large  and  projecting.  His 
chin  is  well-proportioned.  His  hair  is  black— 
until  it  becomes  snowed  by  age — and  his  beard, 
not  very  long,  is  divided.  His  complexion  is 
ruddy.  He  is  animated,  amiable,  resolute.  His 

86 


VITTORIA  COLONNA 

memory  is  very  tenacious,  his  perseverance  in- 
domitable. He  speaks  little — but  when  he  does 
open  his  lips  his  tongue  can  be  as  sharp  as  his 
chisel.  He  is  full  of  wit  and  humour.  He  has  no 
wife — but  like  Petrarch  and  Dante  he  has  his 
ideal. 

We  thank  you,  dear  old  Vasari,  for  your  des- 
cription. It  brings  the  man  before  us  face  to  face. 
It  enables  us  to  understand  better  his  relations 
with  Vittoria  Colonna — the  beautiful  Marchese  di 
Pescara.  How  the  rude  strength  of  his  nature  was 
refined,  and  therefore  made  the  more  strong,  by 
her  fine  influence,  is  not  difficult  to  imagine.  They 
were  both  followers  of  Savonarola ;  and  she 
devoted  the  long  years  of  her  widowhood  to  all  the 
lovely  offices  of  charity  a  good  woman  can  per- 
form. The  ladies  of  England  who  gather  young 
girls  around  them  to  keep  them  from  the  evil,  are 
only  following  in  her  steps.  And  to  her  the  great 
painter  confided  his  fears,  and  hopes,  and  aspira- 
tions. Is  it  a  strange  thing  that  a  beautiful  woman 
should  be  the  consoler  alike  of  the  poor,  ignorant, 
outcast,  and  of  the  greatest  genius  of  the  age  ? 
Ah,  no.  That  is  only  what  we  should  expect  from 
the  highest  of  all  God's  gifts  to  man.  Vittoria 
Colonna  was  Angelo's  Beatrice.  It  was  his  love 
for  this  woman,  and  the  passionate  remembrance 
of  her  which  he  retained  to  extreme  old  age,  that 
brightens  the  closing  period  of  his  life.  The  life  of 

8? 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

the  gentle  yet  stately  Marchese  remains  shrouded  in 
strange  mystery.  Recently  discovered  documents, 
however,  throw  some  light  upon  her  association 
with  the  painter.  Widowed  while  yet  in  the  bloom 
of  beauty,  she  found  refuge  from  her  sorrow — 
according  to  Giannone,  in  the  new  spiritual  life 
that  came  with  the  Reformation,  though  she  never 
actually  abandoned  the  Catholic  Church  to  em- 
brace the  reformed  faith.  Writing  to  her,  Angelo 
says — "  I  am  going  in  search  of  truth  with  un- 
certain step.  My  heart,  hesitating  between  vice 
and  virtue,  suffers,  and  finds  itself  failing  like  a 
weary  traveller  wandering  in  the  dark.  Ah  !  do 
thou  become  my  counsellor.  Thy  advice  shall  be 
sacred ;  clear  away  my  doubts,  teach  me  in  my 
wavering  how  my  unenlightened  soul  may  resist 
the  tyranny  of  passion  even  to  the  end.  Do  thou 
thyself  who  hast  directed  my  steps  towards 
heaven  by  ways  of  pleasantness  prescribe  a  course 
for  me." 

The  correspondence  of  these  two  is  a  revelation 
alike  of  the  purity  of  their  lives,  and  of  the  exalta- 
tion of  their  spiritual  aspirations.  In  one  letter  he 
compares  Flemish  with  Italian  Art.  We  may  not 
perhaps  agree  with  him  that  "  it  is  only  to  works 
which  are  executed  in  Italy  that  the  name  of  true 
painting  can  be  ascribed,  and  that  is  why  good 
painting  is  always  called  Italian  " — but  we  do 
accept  his  faith  that  good  painting  is  in  itself  noble 

88 


THE  MAN  HIMSELF 

and  religious — that  nothing  elevates  a  good  man's 
spirit,  and  carries  it  farther  on  towards  devotion, 
than  the  difficulty  of  reaching  that  state  of  per- 
fection nearest  to  God  which  unites  us  to  Him. 
"  Now  good  painting,"  he  writes,  "  is  an  imitation 
of  His  perfection,  the  shading  of  His  pencil,  the 
rendering  of  His  music  ;  and  it  is  only  a  refined 
intellect  which  can  appreciate  the  difficulty  of 
this.  That  is  why  good  painting  is  so  rare,  and 
why  so  few  men  can  get  near  to  it,  or  produce  it." 
In  another  letter  he  tells  her  that  the  plan  of  St. 
Peter's  must  be  cruciform  because  "  it  was  thus 
that  the  Saviour  stretched  out  His  arms  for  us." 
In  yet  another  he  sends  a  little  drawing  he  has 
made  for  her  of  Christ  upon  the  cross. 

Happy  is  the  student  of  Art  who  cares  to  listen 
to  the  living  voice  of  a  great  painter,  rather  than 
to  the  rattling  of  the  dry  bones  of  criticism.  The 
life  of  Michael  Angelo  is  not  so  much  the  telling 
of  a  story  as  the  movement  of  a  drama.  It  is  he 
himself  who  speaks,  and  meditates,  and  acts  before 
us — now  laughingly  to  his  friends  ;  now  sternly, 
or  in  wise  counsel  with  princes  ;  now  pitifully  to 
the  widow  and  orphan  of  his  old  servant ;  now 
fiercely  to  the  mad  multitude ;  always  with 
reverence  and  tenderness  to  the  woman  he  loved. 
"  Sometimes,"  he  says  to  her,  "  while  I  am  con- 
versing with  the  Pope  I  put  on  my  old  hat,  not 

89 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

thinking  of  it,  and  talk  freely  to  His  Holiness. 
However,  he  does  not  kill  me  for  it."  "  I  hope," 
says  Vittoria,  "  that  should  I  speak  to  you  about 
painting  you  won't  box  my  ears,  to  prove  that 
great  men  are  reasonable  and  not  eccentric."  To 
one — his  brother — who  had  wronged  his  family, 
he  writes  :  "  By  the  Body  of  Christ !  but  you  shall 
find  that  I  will  confound  ten  thousand  such  as  you, 
if  needs  be."  To  another,  his  father,  who  had 
unjustly  doubted  him,  he  writes  :  "I  hold  it  to 
be  my  duty  to  submit  when  you  reprove  me— 
therefore  I  beseech  you  to  put  away  your  anger 
and  come  back."  Irritable,  impetuous,  quick  in 
resolution,  he  took  counsel  with  no  one  but  him- 
self. It  was  the  manly  character  that  he  dis- 
played, rather  than  his  frescoes  and  his  statues, 
which  won  for  him  the  enthusiastic  admiration  of 
the  citizens.  The  Florentines  saw  in  him  the 
defender  of  the  independence  of  the  Republic  of 
Florence.  During  the  siege  he  remained  almost 
continually  in  the  fortress,  directing  everything  in 
person.  When  he  did  come  down  into  the  city  it 
was  only  to  work  stealthily  at  his  sculpture  or  his 
painting. 

Sculptor,  Painter,  and  now  Architect,  for  we 
turn  to  St.  Peter's  and  find  Michael  Angelo  there. 
In  1547  he  was  appointed  architect  of  the  Duomo, 
in  succession  to  San  Gallo.  In  1558  he  finished  his 

90 


AS  AN  ARCHITECT 

model  for  the  dome.  My  subject,  however,  is  the 
Seven  Angels  of  the  Renascence,  not  the  con- 
struction of  a  cathedral.  I  will  be  content  to 
let  San  Pietro  tell  its  own  story — just  as  Angelo 
himself  made  marble  to  speak.  This  is  what  it 
said  to  me,  as  I  stood  painting  in  its  aisles— 

Angelo  built  me  in  this  city  of  Rome  ; 

Laid  the  cross  low  upon  the  earth,  and  hung 

A  dome  above  it — like  that  mightier  dome 

Where  sang  the  angels  when  the  world  was  young, 

And  the  Creator  loved  it.     Now  it  is  old, 

And  the  Redeemer  loves  it,  and  has  thus, 

Creator  and  Redeemer  of  the  fold, 

Stretched  out  His  arms  upon  the  cross  for  us. 

So  Angelo  built  me,  with  the  golden  rod 
Of  the  "  Seventh  Angel,"  who,  in  Paradise, 
Measured  the  walls  of  the  new  city  of  God. 
Angel  or  Angelo — for  in  that  blest  place 
Angels  and  men  see  God  with  equal  eyes, 
And  all  his  servants  serve  Him  face  to  face. 

Angel  or  Angelo  ?  It  is  a  curious  question  to 
be  suggested  by  the  sacred  text.  It  is,  however, 
suggested  only — not  answered.  Perhaps  the  writer 
could  not  answer  it.  Perhaps  it  cannot  be  an- 
swered until  we  know  what  is  the  difference  be- 
tween a  man,  and  an  angel.  The  measurements 
given  by  St.  John  are  like  the  measurements  of  an 
architect — by  scale.  They  are,  he  says,  "  accord- 
ing to  the  measure  of  a  man,  that  is  of  an  angel/' 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

Is  then  the  spirituality  of  its  use  a  measure  of  the 
fineness  of  fine  art  ?  It  cannot  be  so — for  pagan 
temples,  foul  with  unholy  rites,  are  not  less  lovely, 
considered  as  architecture,  than  the  church  which 
is  the  consecrated  expression  of  Michael  Angelo' s 
passionate  love  of  Christ.  Or  is  the  beauty  of  the 
service  Art  renders  to  Religion  a  measure  of  the 
spirituality  pf  the  worshipper,  and  of  his  accept- 
ance by  the  Divine  Being  ?  Again,  No.  It  is 
inconceivable  that  God  should  delight  particularly 
in  Gothic  or  Renascence,  or  be  more  gracious 
amidst  Corinthian  columns  than  amidst  columns 
of  the  Doric  or  Ionic  orders.  There  must  be  a 
difference  between  the  ipeasure  of  a  man  and  of 
an  angel — between  Art,  that  is,  and  Religion — if 
only,  we  can  discover  it.  I  think  that  Michael 
Angelo  had  discovered  it. 

Sculptor,  Painter,  Architect.  Have  I  not  left 
one  word  out  ?  Ah,  yes — more  than  one.  The 
life  of  Michael  Angelo  as  a  painter,  and  sculptor, 
and  architect,  might  be  paralleled  by  the  life  of 
Michael  Angelo  as  an  engineer,  as  a  philosopher,  as 
a  scholar,  as  a  poet.  The  "  seven  lines  across  his 
forehead  "  are  they  not  a  cypher  of  the  sevenfold 
gifts  of  his  genius  ?  I  am  considering  his  life 
only  as  one  of  the  great  torch-bearers  that  flash 
their  light  on  Art.  But  there  is  an  episode  of 
singular  beauty  to  be  recalled,  in  which  he  stands 

92 


AS  A  POET 

before  us  for  a  moment  crowned  with  laurel,, 
against  the  dark  background  of  the  troublous 
times  in  which  he  lived.  Among  the  sculptures 
of  the  Chapel  of  the  Medici,  in  Florence,  is  the 
figure  of  Night.  It  made  so  powerful  an  im- 
pression at  the  time  that  many  poets  vied  with 
each  other  in  celebrating  it  in  verse.  There  is  still 
extant,  indeed,  a  lovely  stanza,  written  by  one 
whose  name  has  been  forgotten.  "  She  whom 
thou  seest  sleeping  so  sweetly  was  sculptured 
by  an  Angel.  But  if  she  sleeps  she  must  have^ 
life.  If  thou  dost  not  believe  it  wake  her,  and 
she  will  speak." 

To  this  Michael  Angelo  replied  in  verses  equally 
polished,  and  with  an  exaltation  of  thought  which 
lifts  him  as  a  poet  to  his  own  level  as  a  sculptor  : 
"  Sweet  to  me  is  sleep — and  still  sweeter  to  sleep 
in  marble.  In  these  days  of  evil  and  dishonour, 
not  to  see,  not  to  remember,  is  itself  happiness. 
Therefore  wake  me  not,  but  speak  low." 

It  chances  sometimes  that  after  studying  a 
great  work  of  Art,  such  as  the  Dies  Ircey  in  the 
Sistine  Chapel — its  design,  the  grouping  of  the 
figures,  the  action,  the  expression,  the  colour,  the 
technique— we  turn  away  thinking  we  have  seen 
all  that  is  to  be  seen  :  and  yet,  looking  back  for  an 
instant,  some  fresh  revelation  of  its  beauty  or  of 
its  defect,  which  we  had  not  observed  before,, 

93 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

strikes  us  with  sudden  force.  May  we  not,  then, 
in  considering  the  life  of  a  great  painter,  do  as  we 
would  do  with  his  picture — that  is,  look  back, 
just  for  a  moment.  If  a  fresh  light  should  fall  upon 
us,  it  will  be  worth  attention  ;  if  we  see  nothing 
new  we  shall  be  the  more  confirmed  in  the  judg- 
ment we  have  already  formed.  What  will  an 
impressionist  sketch  show  us  of  Michael  Angelo 
Buonarroti  ? 

A  bambino — born  at  the  very  hour  when  Venus 
and  Mercury  were  in  conjunction  with  Jupiter — 
-sucking  in  the  use  of  mallet  and  chisel  with  his 
mother's  milk. 

A  child,  not  very  clever  at  school,  but  carefully 
taught,  and  passing  at  an  early  age  to  the  studio 
of  a  famous  artist. 

A  youth,  adopted  by  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent, 
brought  up  with  princes,  in  daily  association  with 
the  finest  intellects  of  the  Renascence. 

A  young  man,  passionately  interested  in  the 
higher  politics  of  the  day,  and  always  taking  the 
generous  side. 

A  lover,  who  loved  one  only — a  woman  as  noble 
as  himself. 

A  sturdy  republican, — ardent,  courageous,  in- 
corruptible. 

A  Christian,  profoundly  moved  by  the  con- 
troversies which  divided  the  Church  of  Christ. 

94 


DERELICT 

A  painter,  an  architect,  a  sculptor,  a  poet — in 
every  act  of  his  life  immortal. 

An  old  man  of  eighty,  beginning  to  build  the 
dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

A  derelict  of  the  Renascence — having  led  its 
armies  to  victory — dying  sorrowfully  and  alone, 
with  no  commander  to  succeed  him,  and  no  army 
worth  commanding. 

The  end  came  in  1564.  Michael  Angelo  had  sur- 
vived Vittoria  Colonna  sixteen  years.  Sixteen 
years  of  regret  that  when  she  lay  dead  he  had 
ventured  only  to  kiss  her  hand,  when  he  might 
have  kissed  her  lips.  Years  of  unremitting  labour 
—he  was  upwards  of  eighty  years  old  when  he 
made  the  calculations  for  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's, 
and  the  beautiful  model  which  is  preserved  in  the 
Clementine  chapel.  Years  of  exile,  for  the  bat- 
tered old  republican  refused  to  return  to  Florence. 
Years  of  declining  health,  the  springs  of  life  de- 
creasing day  by  day,  the  heaven-sent  frenzy  which 
makes  everything  seem  easy  to  youth  flickering 
and  going  out.  Years  of  silence  and  reserve — "  I 
go  my  way  alone.  For  myself  I  have  at  least  this 
satisfaction,  that  no  one  can  read  in  my  face  the 
story  of  my  weariness  and  longing."  Years  in 
which  to  do  justice  to  his  rivals — "  Bramante,"  he 
wrote,  "  was  as  great  an  architect  as  any  who  have 
appeared  from  antient  times  to  our  own.  It  was 

95 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 

he  who  laid  the  foundations  of  St.  Peter's.  Raphael 
painted  a  master-piece  in  Rome  which  would  have 
a  just  title  to  the  first  rank.''  Years,  nevertheless, 
in  which,  when  the  great  work  of  his  life  was  in 
question,  the  building  of  S.  Peter's— his  character 
resumed  all  its  old  ruggedness  and  determination. 
'  Your  business,"  said  he  to  the  Great  Council, 
"  your  business  is  to  give  me  the  money,  and  to 
get  rid  of  knaves.  As  to  the  building— that  is  my 
affair."  Then,  turning  to  Julius  III.,  "  You  see, 
Holy  Father,  what  I  get.  If  the  fatigue  which  I 
endure  is  of  no  use  to  my  soul,  I  am  losing  time  and 
trouble."  The  Pope,  who  loved  him,  put  his 
hands  upon  his  shoulders  and  said,  "  You  are  doing 
much  both  for  soul  and  body." 

Body  and  soul  were,  however,  separated  on  the 
18th  of  February,  in  his  eighty-ninth  year.  "  The 
man  with  the  broad  square  forehead,  with  seven 
lines  straight  across  it,"  would  be  seen  no  more 
in  the  streets  of  Rome,  or  leaning  on  the  Ponte 
Vecchio  at  Florence.  The  soul  of  Michael  Angelo 
remains  with  us  in  his  works  ;  but  his  body  had 
still  to  be  fought  for,  like  the  body  of  Moses. 
Rome  and  Florence  disputed  for  its  possession. 
Immediately  after  his  death  the  great  painter  was 
carried,  by  command  of  the  Pope,  to  the  church 
of  the  Apostoli,  to  remain  there  until  a  mauso- 
leum worthy  of  him  should  be  raised  in  St.  Peter's. 


SANTA  CROCK 

The  beautiful  lines  he  had  written  in  response 
to  the  tributary  verses  of  the  Florentine  poet— 
which  I  have  already  translated — might  now  have 
been  engraved  over  him  in  the  great  cathedral  he 
had  designed— 

Grato  mi  e  il  sonno,  e  piu  1'esser  di  sasso  : 
Mentre  che  il  danno  e  la  vergogna  dura, 
Non  veder,  non  sentir  m'e  gran  ventura ; 
Pero  non  mi  destar  ;  deh  parla  basso  ! 

But  the  Florentines  contrived  to  steal  the  sleep- 
er from  the  church,  and  carried  him  by  stealth  to 
Florence.  There  he  was  received  at  midnight,  the 
oldest  and  most  distinguished  of  the  Academicians 
—painters  and  sculptors,  and  'architects — bearing 
torches,  the  younger  men  carrying  the  bier.  The 
greatest  secrecy  had  been  observed,  but  the  news 
passed  quickly  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  the 
citizens  crowded  in  thousands  to  Santa  Croce. 
There  Michael  Angelo  still  sleeps. 


97 


TITIAN 


TITIAN.  In  that  light— in  that  light!  The 
Lady  Flora  cannot  return  to  England  until  Titian 
has  painted  her. 

THE  LADY  FLORA.  Why  in  that  light  ?  And 
why  not  in  England  ?  The  light  is  the  same. 

TITIAN.  Sometimes.  But  it  is  the  colour! 
It  is  ivory — it  is  gold — it  is  the  light  which  flashed 
on  Dance  of  Argos  in  her  brazen  tower ! 

THE  LADY  FLORA.  That  was  in  the  old  days 
of  the  gods. 

TITIAN.  Yes — but  this  morning,  looking  across 
the  Adriatic,  I  saw  Pegasus — 

THE  LADY  FLORA.  Pegasus  ?  It  was  only 
a  cluster  of  stars  -f 

TITIAN.     //  was  a  Messenger  from  Olympus. 


.Hanfstaengl 


PLATE  XIX.       FROM  THE  PAINTING 
IN  THE  ROYAL  GALLERY,   BERLIN 


TITIAN 


CANNOT  tell  how 
many  are  the  sons 
of  Italy — but  as  an 
artist  I  know  that 
she  is  the  mother 
of  many  beautiful 
daughters.  Are  not 
there  first  the  twin 
sisters — Siena  and 
Florence  ? — to  say 
nothing  of  Naples 
and  Bologna,  and  Milan,  and  Rome,  each  in  itself 
an  alma  mater  of  a  school  of  Art  ?  And  last — the 
youngest  of  them  all,  and  loveliest — Venice,  with 
garments  woven  of  sea  and  sky,  cinctured  with 
hills  blue  as  the  lapis-lazuli  of  her  shrines — where 
the  sun  rises  and  sets,  crowning  her  twice  daily 

101 


TITIAN 

with  rubies  and  gold,  and  the  stars  every  night 
string  a  necklace  of  pearls  as  the  gondolas  rock 
idly  on  the  silent  highway  that  winds  amidst  her 
sleeping  palaces. 

But  it  is  not  for  the  sake  of  the  jewels — the  sun, 
and  moon,  and  stars — which  are  her  adornment, 
that  I  turn  to  the  Queen  of  the  Adriatic  now  ;  nor 
is  it  even  for  the  sake  of  the  memory  of  happy  days 
when  I  watched  every  changing  light  that  fell  on 
her  golden  architecture,  as  a  lover  watches  the 
varying  expression  of  his  mistress'  face.  It  is  for 
the  sake  of  Titian.  It  is  because  Venice  is  the 
Venice  of  Titian — the  third  of  the  Five  Great 
Painters  of  the  Renascence.  His  name  stands 
third,  not  as  being  of  third  rank — for  the  five  were 
equal — but  as  the  third  to  be  inscribed  on  the  roll- 
call  by  the  hand  of  Time. 

Venice,  however,  is  to  each  of  her  visitors  a 
different  city.  There  are  Shylocks,  to  whom  she 
is  only  the  Rialto  ;  there  are  Bassanios,  to  whom 
she  is  a  place  of  perpetual  festival ;  there  are 
Antonios,  to  whom  she  is  an  altar  of  sacrifice  ; 
there  are  Jessicas,  who  run  from  her  for  love  ;  and 
Portias,  who  visit  her  by  stealth.  There  are  poets 
— see  now,  how  even  men  of  the  same  craft  will 
differ  from  each  other  in  their  account  of  her  ! 
Dante,  casting  about  for  a  simile  for  the  blackness 
of  his  Malebolge,  can  think  of  nothing  grim  enough 
but — "  the  great  arsenal  of  the  Venetians,  where 

102 


THE  VENICE  OF  DANTE 

seethes  in  its  furnaces  the  burning  pitch.'1  Nor, 
except  in  two  very  uncomplimentary  passages 
in  the  "  Paradiso,"  does  he  care  to  make  Venice 
anything  better  than  a  background  for 

A  black  devil  of  ferocious  aspect 
Running  along  a  crag. 

— and  yet  Dante  knew  Venice  in  the  very  zenith 
of  her  greatness  ;  when  her  Doges  had  just  given 
shelter  to  a  Pope  flying  from  the  fury  of  a  Bar- 
barossa,  had  held  Otho  prisoner,  had  dictated 
terms  at  the  gates  of  Constantinople,  had  annexed 
the  islands  of  Greece,  and  claimed  entire  dominion 
of  the  sea. 

But  hear  now  what  another  poet  says  of  her  : 

A  sea 

Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  heights 
Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains. 

And  again — 

A  dying  glory  smiles 

O'er  the  far  times  when  many  a  subject  land 
Looked  to  the  winged  lion's  marble  piles 

Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred  isles. 

—and  yet  Lord  Byron  knew  her  only  in  her  desola- 
tion, despoiled  and  trampled  underfoot  by  Napo- 
leon, ceded  as  merchandise  to  the  Austrians,  her 
children  sealing  their  own  shame  by  the  abdication 
of  her  senators  with  the  declaration,  amidst  tears 
and  blood,  that  "  Venice  was  no  more." 

103 


TITIAN 

So,  standing  apart  from  each  other  by  the  space 
of  six  centuries,  these  two  men  looked  upon  our 
beautiful  city.  But  neither  of  them  beheld 
Venice.  The  one  saw  only  her  cradle,  rocked  by 
the  tempests  of  passion  and  war  ;  the  other — her 
empty  place,  after  that  she  had  arisen,  and  had 
reigned  a  Queen,  and  had  passed  away. 

The  Venice  of  which  I  write,  however,  is  the 
Venice,  not  of  the  poet,  or  the  statesman,  or  the 
soldier,  but  of  the  painter.  It  is  the  busy  world — 
full  of  peril — full  also  of  life  and  light  and  action, 
and  therefore  bright  with  hope — to. which  Titian 
came,  a  simple  lad,  from  the  Alpine  village  of 
Cadore.  It  is  the  school  where  he  found  a  master 
in  Bellini,  and  companions  in  Giorgione  and  Palma 
Vecchio.  It  is  the  home  where  he  entertained  his 
friends  in  a  pleasant  garden,  or  showed  them  the 
beautiful  pictures  that  rilled  his  house,  or  feasted 
them  with  rare  viands  and  costly  wines.  It  is 
the  arena  where  he  struggled  hard  for  mastery 
with  craftsmen  only  less  great  than  himself.  It  is 
the  exchange  where  he  made  the  world  rich — Paris 
and  Madrid,  London  and  Rome,  competing  for  the 
treasures  of  his  studio.  It  is  the  court  where  he, 
a  prince  among  painters,  received  the  visits  of 
Angelo  and  Diirer,  princes  also  by  the  same  right 
of  pre-eminence  in  their  own  lands.  It  is  the 
city  of  palaces  that  he  made  more  splendid  ;  of 

104 


THE  VENICE  OF  TITIAN 

shrines  that  he  made  more  sacred  ;  and  having 
chosen  for  himself  a  grave  there,  in  the  stately 
Church  of  the  Frari,  and  fallen  stricken  by  the 
plague,  it  is  now  his  mausoleum,  where,  after 
nearly  a  hundred  years  of  toil,  and  ambition,  and 
defeat,  and  glory,  he  at  last  sleeps. 

Time  has  dealt  gently  with  Venice.  I  think 
that  few  cities  have  suffered  so  little  in  the  way  of 
alteration,  or  lost  landmarks.  Its  seat  upon  the 
waters  does  not  lend  itself  to  suburban  extension  ; 
its  main  thoroughfares  are  as  enduring  as  the  salt 
sea  of  which  they  are  made.  And  yet  Venice 
to-day  is  not  quite  the  same  as  it  was  four  hundred 
years  ago — when  Tiziano,  the  little  lad  from 
Cadore,  entered  the  studio  of  the  Bellini,  and  with 
Giorgione  talked  over  the  new  discoveries  in  the 
other  world  by  Columbus.  In  one  respect,  indeed, 
it  is  more  like  than  we  could  wish  it  to  be — for  it 
has  lost  its  campanile.  Titian  saw  the  slow  build- 
ing of  its  walls,  and  may  have  taken  part  in  its 
design — but  he  did  not  live  to  see  its  beautiful 
battlements  towering  over  San  Marco  and  the 
Hall  of  the  Great  Council.  Nor  in  Titian's  time 
was  there  the  dome  of  Santa  Maria  della  Salute  at 
the  other  side  of  the  Grand  Canal,  nor  the  Dogana, 
nor  the  Rialto.  The  chief  splendours  of  archi- 
tecture with  which  his  eyes  were  familiar  were  the 
Duomo,  with  its  antient  mosaics  ;  the  Doges' 

105 


TITIAN 

Palace,  with  its  Bridge  of  Sighs  ;  the  monastery  of 
the  Frari,  one  of  the  largest  and  most  beautiful 
of  the  churches  of  Italy  ;  and  the  old  Fondaco, 
where  the  merchants  of  Venice  used  to  meet  on 
change,  long  before  Antonio — the  Merchant  of 
Venice — lost  his  ship  of  rich  lading  on  the  Goodwin 
Sands.  All  these  buildings  were  enriched  with  the 
work  of  Titian  and  his  companions. 

The  only  thing  that  never  changes  seems  to  be 
the  law  that  everything  must  change.  If  since 
Titian  lived  Venice  has  altered  a  little,  Art  has 
been  revolutionised.  And  the  revolution  began  in 
Titian's  studio.  It  came  about  in  this  way.  The 
practice  of  painting  in  oil — invented  by  the  Van 
Eycks  early  in  the  fifteenth  century,  had  reached 
the  Italian  schools.  In  the  hands  of  the  Flemish 
painters  it  had  already  proved  to  be  successful  as 
a  means  of  imparting  the  most  exquisite  finish  of 
detail  and  surface,  together  with  a  depth  and  rich- 
ness of  colour  far  beyond  anything  that  could  be 
attained  by  the  old  methods  of  fresco  and  tempera. 
In  the  hands  of  Titian  it  became  a  new  language 
for  the  artist,  just  as  with  Dante  the  old  dialect 
of  Italy  had  become  a  new  language  for  the  poet. 
The  limitations  with  which  the  German  painters 
had  practised  the  art  were  disregarded  by  Titian. 
The  white  grounds  and  separate  palettes  of 
colour  disappeared  with  the  sweep  of  his  brush. 

106 


MASTER  PAINTERS 

Moreover,  the  new  method   affected   vitally^the 
conditions  of  the  painter's  life. 

Hitherto  painters  had  worked  in  groups,  or 
companies — many  men  being  engaged  upon  the 
same  design,  under  a  chief,  who  was  known  as  the 
4t  Master."  The  great  mural  decorations  which 
covered  the  interiors  of  churches  and  municipal 
buildings  could  scarcely  otherwise  have  been 
carried  to  completion.  The  design  would  of  course 
be  the  master's  ;  and  perhaps  the  principal  figures 
would  be  by  his  own  hand  ;  but  the  subordinate 
parts  of  the  picture  would  be  painted  by  his  pupils 
and  assistants.  The  two  angels  by  Leonardo  Da 
Vinci  were  thus  painted  in  Verrocchio's  picture  of 
the  Baptism  of  our  Lord.  The  master  was  in 
effect  the  architect  of  the  design — for  the  word 
architect  simply  means  chief  artist.  And  just  as 
the  architect  of  a  cathedral,  though  he  may  make 
drawings  for  every  lovely  capital  or  traceried 
window,  does  not  build  the  cathedral  with  his  own 
hands,  so  the  master  designed,  but  did  not  neces- 
sarily paint,  the  pictures  attributed  to  him.  There 
are  a  few  instances  in  which  the  designer  is  also 
the  painter,  suffering  no  other  hand  to  touch  his 
work.  Michael  Angelo,  as  we  have  seen,  was  alone 
in  painting  the  frescoes  of  the  Sistine  Chapel.  But 
that  was  a  rare  exception,  and  the  work  cost 
twelve  years  of  his  life.  Moreover  the  exigencies 
of  time  and  material  made  it  necessary  for  men  to 

107 


TITIAN 

work  together.  In  mosaic  there  was  the  endless 
counting,  and  fitting,  and  embedding,  of  the 
tesserae  ;  in  fresco,  the  swift  execution  of  the 
design  on  the  wet  plaster.  So  that  in  Titian's  time 
the  word  "  master  "  did  not  mean  quite  the  same 
thing  as  it  does  now.  The  Bellini  were  Titian's 
masters — and  so  was  Giorgione — for  Titian  worked 
under  them,  following  their  designs  ;  and  yet,  as  a 
painter,  Titian  was  the  Master  of  them  all. 

This  companionship  in  labour,  however,  affected 
the  whole  status  of  the  artist's  life.  Men  were 
brought  together,  not  so  much  to  see  each  other's 
work  when  it  was  done — as  to  see  the  doing  of  it. 
If  the  design  was  wrought  in  mosaic  it  might  well 
be  that  the  most  unimaginative,  but  exact  work- 
man, would  be  the  best  workman,  and  there  would 
be  little  opportunity  for  a  touch  of  genius  in  him 
to  bring  him  closer  to  his  master.  But  when  the 
material  was  fresco,  or  tempera,  the  assistant  had 
his  chance.  The  success  of  the  whole  design 
might  be  made  or  marred  by  the  technique — which 
the  assistant  shared  with  his  chief.  From  tech- 
nique the  young  genius  would  pass  to  design,  as 
we  have  seen  in  the  lives  of  Da  Vinci  and  Michael 
Angelo. 

Now  the  practice  of  oil  painting,  brought  to  the 
perfection  it  attained  under  Titian,  tended  to 
strengthen  the  hand  of  the  individual  as  against 
the  community.  It  created  the  art  of  painting 

108 


THE  VENUE  CHANGED 

pictures.  The  old  limitations  of  tempera,  and 
fresco,  and  mosaic,  became  of  little  account.  If  a 
man  would  show  his  skill  and  prowess  as  a  painter 
it  was  no  longer  necessary  for  him  to  dream — as 
Andrea  del  Sarto  dreamed — of 

Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo,  and  me 
To  cover 

—nor  even  to  wait  for  a  commission,  by  the 
canons  of  some  neighbouring  monastery,  to  deco- 
rate their  refectory.  The  artist  could  just  buy  a 
canvas,  and  paint  his  picture  in  his  own  home.  It 
seems  at  first  sight  like  exchanging  the  game  of 
Whist  played  with  four  merry  partners,  for  the 
solitary  game  of  Patience  played  with  oneself. 
But  it  meant  much  more  than  that. 

It  meant  to  Art  that  the  venue  was  changed. 
It  meant  that  the  artist,  no  longer  tied  to  the 
service  of  the  Church  or  the  State,  should  turn  for 
inspiration  to  the  things  which  concern  the  com- 
mon passions  of  our  lives.  It  meant  that  Dutch 
painters  should  paint  Dutchmen  drinking  beer, 
and  Dutch  women  cleaning  cabbages.  It  meant 
that  Titian  should  paint  a  lovely  English  girl  as 
"  Flora " — and  the  beautiful  Laura  Dianti  as 
4  Venus  blindfolding  Master  Cupid,"  while  her 
sisters — as  Nymphs — arm  him  with  the  arrows  of 

109 


TITIAN 

the  bow.  It  meant  that  Art  had  passed  from  the 
control  of  ecclesiastics  to  the  self-control  of  the 
artist  in  his  own  studio. 


What  do  we  look  for  in  Art  ?  Do  we  all  look 
for  the  same  thing  ?  Why,  even  in  the  commonest 
things  of  life,  our  everyday  language  betrays  that 
we  are  hopelessly  divided.  Look  at  Titian's 
"  Flora  "  in  the  gallery  of  the  Uffizi  at  Florence. 
Is  not  her  neck  ivory  ?  Is  not  her  hair  gold  ?  Do 
not  her  garments  flash  with  light  ?  It  is  simply 
the  portrait  of  a  girl — that  beautiful  creation  which 
makes  the  whole  world  only  a^suburb  of  Paradise. 
Titian  paints  her  with  flowers  in  her  hand.  Of 
course.  God  made  the  flowers  specially  for  women. 
But  what  do  we  call  her  ?  If  we  are  Germans 
we  call  her  "  Fraulein,"  little  woman — and  think 
how  well  she  will  manage  her  household  some  day 
when  she  becomes  a  "  Frau."  If  we  are  French 
we  call  her  "  M'selle,"  and  think  how  stately  a 
queen  she  will  be  when  she  is  entitled  to  be  named 
"  Madame/'  If  we  are  Italian  we  call  her 
"  Signorina  "  as  though  we  worshipped  at  a  little 
shrine.  If  we  are  English  we  are  content  to  call 
her  "  Miss,"  a  word  which,  meaning  nothing,  has 
become  in  Paris  a  favourite  name  for  a  pet  dog. 
But  girls  are  beautiful  because  they  are  beautiful 
— not  because  we  force  upon  them  names  that  have 
false  meanings.  It  is  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  who 

no 


i  "Si 


PLATE    XX.       FLORA 


FROM    THE    PAINTING    BY    TITIAN 
IN  THE  GALLERY  OF    THE    UFFIZI 


THE  NEW  ALCHEMY 

says  :  "  There  are  many  writers  who,  not  being 
of  the  profession,  and  consequently  not  knowing 
what  can  or  cannot  be  done  in  Art,  always  find 
in  their  favourite  artists  what  they  have  resolved 
to  find.  They  praise  excellences  which  cannot 
exist  together.  In  a  word  the  critics  describe 
only  their  own  imaginations.'1  Let  us  see  to  it 
that  in  Titian's  works  we  see  Titian  ;  in  Angelo's, 
Angelo  ;  in  Da  Vinci's,  Da  Vinci.  The  minds  of 
these  great  painters  move  in  different  planes  of 
thought.  Michael  Angelo  sees  the  event — Da 
Vinci  sees  the  form — Titian  sees  the  colour.  Is 
not  her  neck  ivory  ?  Is  not  her  hair  gold  ?  Yes, 
and  yet  No.  The  colours  Titian  used  are  the  same 
as  those  of  Da  Vinci.  The  ivory  is  as  brown  as 
the  keys  of  an  old  piano.  A  bronze  penny  is 
smarter  than  her  hair.  A  farthing  candle  at  the 
shrine  of  "  Our  Lady  "  is  brighter  than  the  flash- 
ing of  her  garments.  Other  men  have  painted 
with  more  brilliant  pigments  and  their  pictures 
have  seemed  dull.  What  is  it  that  turns  raw 
umber  into  ivory — yellow  ochre  into  gold — and 
white  lead  into  the  lightnings  of  Jupiter  ?  Is  it 
alchemy  ?  Yes,  it  is  the  alchemy  of  Art.  It 
is  Art  that  makes  the  magic  change.  It  is  the  Art 
that  came  with  the  Renascence.  It  is  the  Art  of 
Titian. 

But  it  is  of  no  use  if  you  are  in  Florence  to  look 
for  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  nor  if  you  are  in  Venice 

in 


TITIAN 

to  look  for  Giotto's  Tower.  It  is  Sir  Joshua 
,  Reynolds,  again,  who  observes  how  this  difference 
of  vision  affects  the  painter,  and  is  discernible 
even  more  in  his  studies  than  in  his  finished  work. 
Da  Vinci  insists  upon  being  right  to  a  line's  breadth. 
He  will  draw  the  thing  over  and  over  again  till 
the  outline  is  purified  as  silver  five  times  in  the  fire. 
It  matters  nothing  to  him  whether  it  be  in  red 
chalk  or  black.  Titian  insists  on  the  colour  being 
right — let  the  edges  take  care  of  themselves.  He 
is  looking  for  gold — or  for  ivory — or  for  lightning  ! 
But  neither  can  obtain  what  he  desires  without 
sacrifice.  We  shall  see  presently,  in  studying  the 
works  of  Raphael,  what  can  be  obtained  by  com- 
promise. But  Titian  never  compromised.  He 
flew  at  the  thing  and  did  it — right  or  wrong.  There 
are  two  things  the  painter  is  always  striving  to 
do — and  never  can  accomplish.  The  one  thing  is 
to  paint  light,  the  other  to  paint  darkness.  Both 
.are  alike  impossible.  If  the  painting  were  really 
luminous  it  would  blind  our  eyes  to  look  upon  it. 
If  it  were  really  dark  we  could  not  see  it.  The 
Kingdom  of  Art  lies  in  the  twilight  of  Nature,  as 
it  lies  in  the  twilight  of  our  lives.  Titian  has  in 
this  respect  made  the  nearest  approach  to  seeing 
the  invisible. 

It  is  only  by  the  realization  of  this  individuality 
of  the  masters  that  lovers  of  Art  can  pass  from 
London  to  Florence,  and  Venice,  and  Rome,  seeing 

112 


THE  GLORY  OF  COLOUR 

in  each  change  some  new  splendour — a  splendour 
related  to  what  they  have  seen  before,  but  not 
competing  with  it,  nor  dimming  its  lustre  by  a 
greater  light.  No  one  genius  exhausts  the  re- 
sources of  Art,  any  more  than  the  people  of  one 
nation  are  the  sole  exemplary  of  all  the  virtues. 
There  are  women  of  Italy,  like  Vittoria  Colonna, 
who  might  be  great  queens  in  society.  There  are 
women  of  France,  like  Joan  of  Arc,  who  might  be 
worshipped  at  a  shrine.  Englishmen  sometimes 
forget  the  "  Miss"  and  say  "Santa  Filomena."  We 
shall  see  presently  that  Correggio  was  a  colourist 
as  well  as  Titian,  and  that  Raphael  was  a  master 
of  form  as  well  as  Da  Vinci.  But  if  we  would  see 
these  men  at  their  highest,  we  must  learn  to  look 
at  their  work  with  clean  eyes,  and  adapt  the  focus 
of  our  vision  to  theirs. 

With  Titian  came  the  glory  of  colour.  "  The 
old  masters/'  says  a  quaint  writer,  "  had  already 
divested  themselves  of  the  stiffness  of  the  Greek 
artists,  but  had  not  attained  to  the  perfection  of 
Art — the  representation  of  the  tenderness  of 
flesh."  By  the  "  old  masters"  in  the  time  of 
Titian  is  meant  Cimabue,  and  Giotto,  Margaritone 
and  Orcagna — perhaps  even  Fra  Angelico.  But 
these  men  had,  for  the  most  part,  designed  saints 
and  angels.  Whether  Fra  Angelico's  ethereal 
saints  and  rosy-winged  angels,  or  Titian's  vividly 

113 


TITIAN 

painted  flesh  and  blood,  comes  nearest  to  the 
Celestial  Choir,  I,  never  having  been  myself  in 
Heaven,  am  not  in  a  position  to  determine.  But 
I  have  a  profound  conviction  that  in  Art  men 
sometimes  speak  to  each  other  in  unknown 
tongues  ;  and  if  I  fail  to  understand  the  work  of  a 
great  painter  I  do  not  hastily  regard  it  as  foolish- 
ness— I  prefer  to  suspend  judgment  until  I  have 
learned  his  language.  In  the  painting  of  living 
,.  men  and  women  the  Renascence  was  an  im- 
measurable advance  upon  the  Art  of  the  Awaken- 
ing— and  Titian,  in  his  mastery  of  the  brush,  the 
richness  of  his  palette,  the  vividness  of  his  realism, 
was  the  leader.  Look  now  at  his  picture  of  our 
Lord,  and  compare  it  with  that  of  Da  Vinci,  or 
Michael  Angelo,  or  Raphael.  If  Angelico's  visions 
of  Christ  are  more  like  what  we  imagine  Christ  to 
be  now,  the  face  that  Titian  painted  is  certainly 
more  like  what  the  Redeemer  was  when  He  lived 
on  earth — a  man  amongst  men. 

Let  me  now  change  my  method  of  telling  the 
story.  A  few  pages  are  not  enough  in  which  to 
tell  the  story  of  Titian's  life,  and  of  the  Renascence, 
and  of  the  Seven  Angels.  And  yet  the  Seven 
Angels,  and  the  Renascence,  and  Titian, — are  not 
to  be  separated,  if  we  would  understand  the  story 
of  Italian  Art.  That,  however,  which  could  not  be 
effected  by  diffusion,  may  perhaps  be  effected  by 

114 


CADORE  TO  VENICE 

concentration.  Titian  was  born  in  1477,  and  died 
in  1576.  I  will  take  the  century  of  his  life,  decade 
by  decade,  illustrating  each  by  a  characteristic 
sketch,  as  one  would  illustrate  a  poem  by  a  series 
of  outlines.  If  they  should  seem  slight  let  it 
be  remembered  that  the  value  of  a  sketch  does 
not  depend  on  its  elaboration — it  is  sufficient  for 
its  purpose  it  it  be  true. 


THE  CHILD  ARTIST 

Our  first  sketch  shall  be  of  the  child's  home,  a 
village  in  the  mountainous  district  of  Cadore— 
about  seventy  miles  north  of  Venice.  There,  at 
Pieve,  the  earliest  years  of  his  childhood  were 
passed  face  to  face  with  Nature  in  perhaps  the 
grandest  of  the  many  aspects  she  can  assume. 
The  castellated  rocks  of  porphyry,  the  weird 
dragon' s-teeth  of  the  dolomites,  the  snow  mingled 
with  fire  as  the  sun  rose  or  set  beyond  the  hills, 
the  rushing  waters  of  the  Piave,  the  dark  forests 
from  which  the  trees  came  crashing  down  to  be 
floated  away  in  rafts  for  the  ship-builders  of  the 
lagoons,  the  low  murmur  of  the  wind  creeping  up 
the  valleys,  or  the  thunder  of  it  when  tempests 
brake  upon  the  mountains — these  were  among  the 
sights  and  sounds  familiar  to  his  boyhood,  and 
they  form  the  background  of  our  picture.  If  our 


TITIAN 

picture  seems  altogether  background,  we  must 
remember  that  in  such  scenery  the  small  figure  of 
a  child  is  but  of  little  account.  Not  much  is 
known  of  the  childhood  of  Titian.  There  is  a 
legend  of  a  Madonna  painted  by  him,  with  colours 
expressed  from  flowers,  on  the  walls  of  his  father's 
cottage  ;  but  of  this  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  it 
is  a  legend.  We  know  only  that  at  the  age  of 
nine  the  story  of  his  child-life  may  be  said  to  close, 
for  he  was  then  sent  to  Venice  to  be  apprenticed 
as  a  painter ;  but  we  may  well  believe  that  the 
impressions  he  received  during  these  the  first  nine 
years  of  his  life  were  of  a  nature  that  the  ninety 
years  which  followed  served  rather  to  deepen  than 
to  efface. 


TITIAN  AS  A  STUDENT 

Our  second  sketch  is  of  a  youth  at  Venice. 
Titian  was  of  a  good  family,  and  it  was  not  without 
due  consideration  that  he  was  permitted  to  pursue 
the  study  of  art,  instead  of  arms  or  law.  This  in- 
dicates that  the  Painter  held  no  mean  position  in 
the  Republic.  At  the  time  of  his  apprenticeship, 
there  were  many  masters  in  Venice  of  great  distinc- 
tion. The  Bellini — Antonello  da  Messina— Cima 
— Sebastian  Zuccato,  engaged  in  the  restoration, 
which  was  even  then  going  on,  of  the  mosaics  of 

116 


THE  BELLINI 

St.  Mark's— Carpaccio— Giorgione— Vivarini— these 
were  among  the  chief  painters,  not  of  the  place 
only,  but  of  the  age.  And  just  as  in  our  own  day 
I  have  heard  the  students  at  Heatherly's,  in  New- 
man Street,  or  at  the  schools  of  the  Academy,  talk 
over  the  "  Daphnephoria "  of  Leighton,  or  the 
"  North- West  Passage  "  of  Millais,  so  in  the  work- 
shops of  the  Bellini  I  seem  to  hear  the  youthful 
Titian  and  Giorgione  and  Palma  Vecchio,  with 
their  companions,  descanting  on  the  merits  of 
Gentile's  "  Procession  of  the  Relic,"  or  Carpaccio's 
"  Saint  Ursula/'  But  besides  the  merits  of  the 
masters,  these  students  near  the  Fondaco  have 
subject  for  discussion  in  the  question  of  the  styles. 
Tempera  is  still  taught  in  the  schools,  but  the  great 
painters  are  beginning  to  discard  it.  Some  of  the 
old  frescoes  are  still  standing  on  the  walls  of  the 
Great  Council  Chamber.  The  "pale"  Paradise  of 
Guariento  has  not  yet  been  covered  by  the  more 
splendid  Paradise  of  Tintoretto  ;  but  Vivarini  has 
exhibited  the  first  oil-painting  in  Venice,  and  the 
old  style,  so  long  clung  to  by  the  Venetians,  is  fast 
giving  place  to  the  new.  In  the  midst  of  such  a 
movement,  among  companions  so  worthy  of  him 
— and  of  whom  one  at  least,  if  only  he  might  live, 
will  prove  a  formidable  rival  —  taught  by  such 
masters  as  Zuccato  and  the  Bellini — fascinated 
with  the  beauty  of  the  loveliest  city  in  the  world — 
filled  with  tender  memories  of  the  home  which  lies 

117 


TITIAN 

hidden  in  the  blue  line  of  the  distant  Alps,  it  is 
thus  that  Titian  begins  his  artist-life.  And  if  in 
this  second  sketch,  as  in  the  first,  we  see  but  little 
of  Titian  himself,  yet  for  the  sake 

Of  the  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river's  line, 
The  mountains  round  it  and  the  sky  above, 

the  sketch  must  stand.  There  will  not  be  wanting 
presently  the  interest  that  attaches  to  the  living 
man. 

THE  YOUNG  MASTER 

If  in  the  later  schools  of  Venetian  art  we  see  the 
scattering  of  the  gifts  of  Titian  amongst  his  suc- 
cessors, we  see  in  the  art  of  Titian  himself  the 
gathering  into  one  of  the  many  excellencies  of  his 
contemporaries  and  of  those  who  preceded  him. 
And  it  is  in  the  works  of  his  early  manhood  that 
this  gathering  of  his  forces  is  most  apparent.  The 
daring  and  dangerous  facility  that  seemed  natural 
to  him  was  held  in  check,  but  not  destroyed,  by 
the  careful  and  minute  draughtsmanship  insisted 
upon  by  Giovanni  Bellini.  The  result  was 
strength,  with  refinement,  based  upon  knowledge. 
How  much  the  similarity  between  his  work  and 
that  of  Giorgione  or  of  Palma  Vecchio  is  due  to 
mastery,  or  to  assimilation,  would  be  impossible 
to  determine.  A  corresponding  agreement  will 

118 


CU    > 
ft,    22 


9* 

Q   Z 

S  < 
^>  &. 
o 


GIORGIONE 

often  be  found  between  young  painters  who  work 
much  together.  Millais  and  Rossetti  and  Holman 
Hunt,  whose  names  were  once  associated  in  this 
manner,  were  wide  apart  eventually,  nevertheless 
they  have  not  been  without  influence  upon  each 
other.  We  know  now  that  Titian  and  Giorgione 
entered  early  into  partnership,  and  that  though 
Giorgione,  the  senior  of  Titian  by  two  years,  took 
the  lead,  yet  Titian  before  he  was  thirty  years  old 
was  recognised  as  a  master  even  amongst  the  great 
painters  of  Venice.  He  had  visited  the  court  of 
Ferrara,  and  painted  the  picture  of  the  "  Tribute- 
money,'*  now  in  the  gallery  at  Dresden,  and  the 
"  Bacchus  and  Ariadne  "  of  our  own  national  col- 
lection. We  must  think  of  him  also  in  connection 
with  the  stirring  events  of  the  time.  Now,  there 
were  leagues  with  Rome  and  Milan  against  France  ; 
now,  leagues  with  France  against  Milan  and  Naples. 
So  called  Christian  popes  and  emperors  and  kings 
were  intriguing  with  the  Sultan  to  let  loose  a  hell 
of  slaughter  upon  Christendom.  Crusades  were 
preached  on  the  piazza  of  San  Marco,  and  fifty 
thousand  voices  yelled  for  the  slaughter  of  the 
Turks.  Can  we  conceive  of  these  things,  and  the 
young  painter  in  the  midst  of  them,  without  seeing 
the  colour  they  would  give  to  his  life  ?  So  our 
third  sketch  should  close,  but  that  against  the 
lurid  glare  of  it  appears  one  beautiful  figure.  It 
is  said  that  he  loved  Violante,  the  daughter  of  his 

119 


TITIAN 

friend  Palma  Vecchio.  The  story  is  not  verified, 
and  it  is  difficult  to  reconcile  it  with  certain  dates 
which  appear  to  be  sufficiently  attested  ;  never- 
theless, we  trace  the  delicate  outline  of  a  woman, 
like  the  dream  that  comes  to  most  men  at  some 
time  of  their  lives,  the  dream  that  is  not  always 
realised.  Violante,  however,  did  not  become  the 
wife  of  Titian,  and  we  know  her  only  by  the  soft 
lustre  of  her  eyes  and  the  white  garments  folded 
across  her  bosom. 


URSA  MAJOR 

At  the  age  of  thirty  Titian  was  assisting  Gior- 
gione  in  the  decoration  of  the  Fondaco,  a  Govern- 
ment building  that  had  been  re-constructed  after 
a  great  fire.  They  painted  in  fresco  ;  but  Venice, 
with  its  burning  summers  and  keen  winters,  its 
humid  and  salt  atmosphere,  can  be  as  cruel  as 
our  London  of  yellow  fog  and  black  smoke.  There 
is  little  left  at  the  Fondaco  to  tell  us  whether, 
while  working  together  as  friends,  they  were  pur- 
suing the  same  path  as  painters,  or  were  gradually 
differentiating  their  styles.  It  is  said  that  Gior- 
gione  drew  his  inspiration  from  the  antique,  while 
Titian  relied  less  on  classic  beauty  and  more  on 
the  faithful  representation  of  Nature.  We  know 
what  Titian  accomplished,  but  to  what  splendours 

120 


A  VISIT  FROM  ALBERT  DURER 

his  companion  might  have  attained  we  shall  never 
know.  The  face  of  Giorgione  fades  out  of  our 
picture  at  this  time.  He  died  in  1511,  at  the  early 
age  of  thirty-three.  But  if  the  Venice  of  Titian 
in  the  first  years  of  the  century  is  touched  with 
the  melancholy  of  the  death  of  one  great  painter, 
it  rings  with  the  lighthearted  laughter  of  another. 
At  the  very  time  that  Giorgione  and  Titian  were 
preparing  for  the  last  work  they  should  execute 
together,  Albert  Diirer,  then  on  a  visit  to  Venice, 
was  corresponding  with  his  friend,  "  good  master 
Pirkheimer,"  of  Nuremberg.  "  My  French  mantle 
and  my  Italian  coat  greet  you,  both  of  them/'  he 
writes  ;  "  I  wish  you  were  in  Venice.  There  are 
many  fine  fellows  here  among  the  painters,  who 
get  more  and  more  friendly  with  me  ;  it  holds 
one's  heart  up.  Well  brought-up  folks,  good  lute- 
players,  skilled  pipers,  and  many  noble  and  ex- 
cellent people  are  in  the  company.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  are  the  falsest,  most  lying,  thievish 
villains  in  the  whole  world,  I  believe,  appearing 
to  the  unwary  the  pleasantest  possible  fellows.  I 
laugh  to  myself  when  they  try  it  with  me.  They 
say  my  art  is  not  on  the  antique,  and  therefore 
not  good.  But  Giovanni  Bellini,  who  has  praised 
me  much  before  many  gentlemen,  wishes  to  have 
something  from  my  hand.  He  has  come  himself 
and  asked  me,  and  he  will  pay  me  handsomely  for 
it.  I  understand  he  is  a  pious  man.  He  is  very 

121 


TITIAN 

old  indeed,  and  yet  the  best  amongst  them.  But 
what  pleased  me  eleven  years  ago  does  not  give 
me  the  same  pleasure  now ;  there  are  better 
painters  here."  Thus  writes  Albert  Diirer,  of  the 
Venice  of  Titian,  living  amongst  the  people,  visit- 
ing the  studios,  quarrelling  with  the  painters  ; 
and  we  can  find  no  picture  more  faithful  than  that 
which  he  has  thus  sketched  for  us,  and  playfully 
signed — "  Given  at  Venice,  at  9  of  the  evening, 
Saturday  after  Candlemas  in  the  year  1506." 
How  he  did  quarrel,  how  carefully  he  counted  his 
ducats,  how  bright  a  place  Venice  seemed  to  him, 
how  keenly  he  felt  the  splendour  of  Venetian 
colour,  how  susceptible  he  was  as  an  artist,  how 
intractable  as  a  man — all  this  comes  out  so  naively 
in  his  correspondence  with  his  friend,  and  at  the 
same  time  gives  so  vivid  an  impression  of  Venice 
as  he  knew  it,  that  I  will  lay  down  my  pen  for  the 
moment  that  he  may  finish  the  sketch  in  his  own 
words  : — "  The  painters  are  becoming  very  ob- 
noxious to  me.  They  have  had  me  before  the 
courts  three  times,  and  compelled  me  to  pay  four 
good  florins  to  their  guild.  All  the  world  wishes 
me  well  except  the  painters  !  You  would  give  a 
ducat  to  see  my  picture,  it  is  so  good  and  rich  in 
colour.  I  have  silenced  all  the  painters  who  say 
'  he  composes  well,  but  knows  little  about  colour.1 
Indeed,  every  one  praises  my  colour.  But  I  must 
tell  you,  I  have  actually  been  to  learn  dancing 

122 


A  LETTER  FROM  THE  DUKE 

here,  and  have  been  twice  to  the  school.  I  must 
pay  the  master  a  ducat.  Nobody  could  get  me 
into  it,  however,  so  I  have  lost  all  my  trouble,  and 
can  do  nothing,  alas  !  How  shall  I  live  in  Nurem- 
berg after  the  bright  sun  of  Venice  ?  " 


TITIAN  IN  HIS  STUDIO 

Our  fifth  sketch  shows  us  a  painter's  studio  in 
Venice,  into  which  the  sunshine  of  a  spring  morning 
is  streaming.  A  man  of  grave  mien  is  standing 
there  ;  he  is  reading  a  letter,  and  as  he  reads,  his 
brow  knits,  and  he  is  angry.  It  is  Titian,  and  the 
letter  in  his  hand  is  from  Alphonso,  the  great  Duke 
of  Ferrara,  upbraiding  him  wrathfully,  and  threat- 
ening the  direst  displeasure  if  he  does  not  make 
haste  to  finish  a  picture  he  has  promised.  Pre- 
sently the  painter  turns  to  some  canvases  and  un- 
finished sketches,  and  bringing  them  to  the  light, 
examines  them  carefully.  There  is  the  portrait  of 
Lucretia  Borgia,  and  of  Laura  Dianti,  and  of  the 
Duke  himself,  with  "  black,  curly  locks,  pointed 
moustache,  and  well-trimmed  beard  of  chestnut, 
with  broad  forehead,  arched  brow,  and  clear  eye, 
altogether  noble  in  attitude  and  proportion."  As 
Titian  looks  at  the  face,  his  anger  cools,  and  he 
resolves  to  propitiate  his  friend.  But  there  are 
other  portraits  there,  of  Senators,  Doges,  fair 

123 


TITIAN 

youths,  beautiful  women,  and  chief  amongst  them 
that  of  Ariosto  the  poet,  dignified,  serene,  yet  full 
of  the  brilliancy  of  intellectual  life — "  a  figure  of 
noble  port,  with  neck  and  throat  exposed,  fine 
features,  handsomely  set  off  by  a  spare  beard  and 
long  chestnut  hair  divided  in  the  middle."  He 
will  meet  him  perhaps  to-night  at  the  painters' 
guild.  Titian  turns  again  to  the  painting  on  his 
easel.  It  is  the  Duke's  picture.  After  all,  it  is 
well  in  hand  ;  Alphonso  the  impatient,  shall  have 
it  in  good  time.  But  two  or  three  points  remain 
for  consideration. 

The  picture — which  is  now  one  of  the  glories  of 
our  National  Gallery — is  known  as  the  meeting  of 
Bacchus  and  Ariadne.  But  the  word  "  Bacchus  " 
is  a  misnomer — it  is  only  a  nickname — with 
sinister  associations  which  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  meeting  of  the  lovers.  Everybody  knows 
that  they  met  at  Naxos,  in  the  ^Egean,  and  that 
after  their  marriage  the  island  was  dedicated  to- 
him  as  Dionysias.  Dionysus  therefore  is  his  true 
name — especially  in  relation  to  Ariadne — for  the 
daughter  of  Minos  was  at  least  as  Hellenic  as  her 
old  rival,  Helen  of  Troy.  Titian,  however,  has 
not  been  very  particular  as  to  the  unities.  The 
figure  of  Dionysus  is  Greek,  but  the  scene  is  an 
Italian  landscape.  In  the  distance  are  the  moun- 
tains of  Cadore,  beloved  of  the  painter.  The 
chariot  is  a  carrucca,  with  its  ivory  curulis.  The 

124 


PLATE    XXII.       DIONYSUS 


FROM  A  PAINTING  BY  TITIAN 
IN  THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY 


THE  STORY  OF  DIONYSUS 

leopards  come,  dead  or  alive,  from  the  Indies — 
brought  by  Venetian  traders.  The  nymphs  are 
models  of  the  studio.  But  the  colour  !  The  co- 
lour is  Titian's— the  design  is  Titian's— the  painting 
is  Titian's. 

How  shall  Titian  paint  the  merry  god  ?  What 
shall  he  call  the  picture.  Dionysus  is  no  doubt 
an  improvement  on  Bacchus — but  is  there  no  other 
name  ?  Things  have  changed  since  Titian  came 
as  a  lad  to  Venice.  The  Art  of  printing  has  made 
rapid  strides.  Aldus  has  succeeded  in  casting 
Greek  type,  and  a  splendid  edition  of  Homer,  in 
folio,  lies  upon  his  table.  Titian  is  living  as  a 
prince.  All  the  wisdom  of  the  wise  men,  all  the 
scholarship  of  the  schools,  finds  its  way  into  his 
studio.  He  turns  from  Catullus,  his  favourite  poet 
to  Ovid,  and  finds  that  Ovid  confirms  Catullus. 
It  is  a  curious  thing,  however,  that  the  story  of 
Ariadne  is  not  told  in  the  Metamorphoses — but 
there  is  no  doubt  as  to  Dionysus.  Dionysus  is  a 
raidant  youth.  At  Elis,  he  was  represented  as  an 
old  man  with  a  beard — but  Elis  is  comparatively 
modern,  in  Homer's  time  it  did  not  exist.  Besides, 
Dionysus  shared  with  Apollo  the  gift  of  eternal 
youth.  How  then  could  he  be  old  and  ugly? 
Titian  decides  against  the  beard. 

Dionysus  is  leaping  from  his  chariot.  He  has 
caught  sight  of  Ariadne.  Leopards  and  lions  are 
not  swift  enough  for  a  god  in  love.  Dionysus,  did 

125 


TITIAN 

I  say  ?  Ariadne  was  used  to  strange  sights — she 
had  seen  the  Minotaur  !  But  of  all  the  Meta- 
morphoses ever  imagined  of  gods  or  men,  none 
could  have  astonished  her  so  much  as  to  have  been 
told  that  the  beautiful  apparition  coming  through 
the  air  was  really  the  great  Lawgiver  of  the 
Hebrews.  Yet  that  is  what  Titian  is  told  in  his 
books.  He  did  not  believe  it.  He  had  painted 
Bacchus  yesterday,  he  was  going  to  paint  Moses 
to-morrow,  and  they  would  be  very  different 
figures — to  say  they  were  the  same  is  to  play  fast 
and  loose  alike  with  fable  and  history.  It  makes 
one  laugh  or  cry.  How  curiously  things  get 
mixed  in  an  artist's  studio,  when  Paganism  and 
Christianity  are  fighting  there  for  the  mastery.  A 
yard  or  two  of  canvas,  a  little  paint  on  a  palette, 
the  sweep  of  a  brush,  and  lo  !  darkness  and  light, 
truth  and  falsehood,  heaven  and  earth  and  hell 
are  brought  together.  For  Dionysus  was  born  in 
Egypt — and  so  was  Moses.  Dionysus,  was  saved  in 
an  ark — so  was  Moses.  Dionysus  was  Bimater,  for 
he  had  two  mothers — one  by  adoption — so  had 
Moses.  Dionysus  was  Bicornis — so  also  was  Moses 
when  the  glory  of  the  Lord  fell  upon  his  brow. 
Dionysus  gave  the  law  on  two  tables  of  stone — so 
did  Moses.  Dionysus  kept  a  dog — so  did  Moses 
for  that  is  the  meaning  of  the  word  Caleb.  More- 
over, it  is  told  of  Dionysus  that  when  he  struck 
the  rock,  water  rushed  forth ;  where  he  travelled 

126 


SANTA  MARIA  GLORIOSA 

the  land  flowed  with  milk  and  honey  ;  the  rivers 
dried  up  under  his  feet  that  he  might  pass  over  ; 
his  staff,  cast  upon  the  ground,  crept  about  like  a 
dragon  ;  and  when  black  darkness  fell  upon  the 
people,  he  and  his  followers  were  surrounded  with 
light. 

While  Titian  is  thinking  it  carefully  over — sud- 
denly is  heard  the  sound  of  church  bells  clashing 
through  the  bright  air,  and  Messer  Titian — for  he 
is  not  yet  Count  Palatine — hastily  replacing  the 
canvases  and  laying  aside  the  Duke's  letter,  pre- 
pares to  leave  the  studio.  At  the  rio  he  selects  a 
gondola,  which,  threading  its  course  amongst  the 
pleasure  boats  on  the  Grand  Canal,  turns  into  one 
of  the  narrow  water-ways  on  the  right,  and  soon 
reaches  the  steps  of  a  great  church.  It  is  the 
Church  of  the  Frari,  and  a  great  company  are 
assembled  to  witness  the  unveiling  of  a  new  altar- 
piece.  There,  in  the  rich  gloom  of  the  massive 
chancel-arches,  is  the  figure  of  the  Virgin,  borne 
on  a  cloud  of  angels,  her  face  uplifted  to  the 
Eternal,  who  bends  over  her  from  the  Empyrean  ; 
beneath  are  the  Apostles,  lost  in  wonder  at  the 
glory  of  her  Assumption.  It  is  a  master-piece  of 
art,  and  the  people  are  stirred  to  enthusiasm.  The 
music  thunders  through  the  aisles  of  the  Frari,  and 
creeps  along  the  vaulted  roof,  where  the  incense 
has  already  climbed  to  meet  it.  And  as  Titian 
stands  amongst  the  crowd,  looking  at  his  own 

127 


TITIAN 

painting,  and  listening  to  the  murmurs  of  delight, 
he  knows  that  after  the  patient  toil  of  nearly  half 
a  century  he  has  reached  the  first  great  triumph 
of  his  life. 


TITIAN  AS  PRESIDENT 

Let  us  picture  to  ourselves  a  meeting  of  the 
.Guild  of  Painters  in  the  Venice  of  Titian.  It  is 
about  the  year  1532,  and  their  new  Hall  has  just 
been  built  through  the  munificent  bequest  of 
Catena,  a  painter  who  has  just  died.  In  this  Hall 
are  assembled  not  painters  only,  but  designers, 
gilders,  embroiderers,  and  men  of  every  craft  in 
which  the  leading  idea  is  Art.  Among  the  first  to 
enter  we  may  imagine  the  young  Moroni,  and 
perhaps  Bassano  ;  they  are  of  the  same  age,  about 
twenty-two  years,  and  they  have  caught  so  much 
of  the  spirit  of  Titian  that  the  time  may  come 
when  some  of  their  work  shall  be  mistaken  for 
that  of  the  great  master.  As  they  enter,  they  are 
speaking  of  the  recent  death  of  Palma  Vecchio, 
in  whose  workshops  they  were  perhaps  students. 
They  are  presently  joined  by  Paris  Bordone,  their 
senior  by  a  few  years,  but  still  young — one  who 
had  studied  under  Giorgione,  and  can  tell  them 
much  about  the  splendid  young  genius  who,  had 
he  lived,  would  have  made  the  greatest  tremble 

128 


Hanfstaengl 


PLATE  XXIII.       THE  POET  OF  THE  RENASCENCE 

FROM  THE  PAINTING  BY  TITIAN 
IN  THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY 


A  VISIT  FROM  MICHAEL  ANGELO 

for  their  laurels  ;  as  to  himself,  he  is  expecting 
shortly  to  be  invited  to  the  French  Court.  And  if 
he  asks  them  whether  Pordenone  is  coming  to- 
night, they  may  perhaps  tell  him  No,  for  he  is 
at  Piacenza,  painting  frescoes  for  the  Church  of 
Santa  Maria  ;  and  one  of  them  may  suggest  the 
question  whether  he,  Pordenone,  may  not  get  him- 
self into  trouble  with  the  pious  monks  there,  if 
he  persists  in  mixing  up  his  virgins  and  nymphs, 
satyrs  and  saints,  all  on  the  same  canvas.  And 
now  other  painters  crowd  into  the  assembly — 
Bonifazio,  who  is  late,  for  he  has  been  working 
long  hours  at  his  painting  of  "  The  Cleansing  of 
the  Temple  "  in  the  Ducal  Palace — and,  it  may  be, 
Carpaccio  and  Tintoretto  ;  but  if  so,  the  one  will 
be  a  venerable  senior,  and  the  other  a  stripling 
not  yet  out  of  his  teens,  but  such  a  stripling  in  art 
as  was  David  in  war.  There  are  many  more  of 
the  guild,  but  we  take  note  only  of  the  painters. 
Of  all  the  company,  however,  painters  or  crafts- 
men of  whatever  sort,  there  are  two  men  standing 
in  their  midst  to  whom  we  turn  with  the  deepest 
interest.  They  are  nearly  of  the  same  age,  be- 
tween fifty  and  sixty.  One  is  Titian,  the  glory 
of  Venice  ;  the  other  is  Michael  Angelo,  the  glory 
of  Florence  and  Rome.  Titian  is  a  man  strongly 
built,  full  of  life  and  movement ;  the  proportions 
of  his  face  are  perfect,  the  forehead  high,  the  brow 
bold  and  projecting,  the  features  finely  chiselled. 

129 


TITIAN 

Round  his  neck  is  the  chain  which  indicates  his 
knightly  rank.  He  wears  an  ample  cloak,  showing 
beneath  it  a  broad  white  collar,  and  sleeves  of 
silver  damask.  There  is  a  marked  likeness  be- 
tween these  two  men — Titian  and  Angelo — in  the 
fire  of  their  eyes,  the  boldness  of  their  brows,  even 
in  the  lines  of  their  beards,  worn  a  little  short  and 
pointed,  and  the  fineness  of  the  hands  which  grasp 
each  other  in  friendship.  Angelo,  visiting  Venice,  is 
greeted  by  Titian.  And  when  the  last  gracious 
words  have  been  spoken,  and  the  assembly  is 
dissolved,  these  two  return  to  Titian's  house. 
They  stand  for  a  moment  looking  into  each  other's 
eyes  before  separating  for  the  night,  and  Angelo 
says  some  words  which  we  cannot  hear.  If  we 
could  hear  them  we  should  know  why  Titian  turns 
so  sadly  away  to  his  solitary  chamber,  for  they 
would  tell  us  that  another  face  has  faded  out  of 
the  picture  of  his  life,  that  the  years  which  have 
brought  riches  and  honour  have  taken  from  him 
his  wife  and  the  mother  of  his  children. 


TITIAN  AT  HOME 

Extract  from  a  letter  written  by  Priscianese  to 
a  friend  in  Rome,  in  the  year  1540,  Priscianese 
being  at  that  time  a  visitor  in  Venice.  The  letter 
will  be  found  in  that  treasury  of  information 

130 


TITIAN  IN  HIS  GARDEN 

on  the  history  and  traditions  of  the  Renascence — 
"  The  Life  of  Titian  "  by  Messrs.  Crowe  and  Caval- 
caselle — as  a  review  of  which  this  sketch  was 
originally  written. 

"  I  was  invited  on  the  day  of  the  calends  of 
August  to  celebrate  a  sort  of  Bacchanalian  feast 
in  a  pleasant  garden  belonging  to  Messer  Tiziano 
Vecellio,  an  excellent  painter,  as  every  one  knows, 
and  a  person  really  fitted  to  season  by  his  courte- 
sies any  distinguished  entertainment.  There  were 
assembled  with  the  said  M.  Tiziano,  as  like  desires 
like,  some  of  the  most  celebrated  characters  that 
are  now  in  this  city,  and  of  ours  ;  chiefly  M.  Pietro 
Arentino,  a  new  miracle  of  nature  ;  and  next  to 
him  as  great  an  imitator  of  nature  with  the  chisel 
as  the  master  of  the  feast  is  with  the  pencil,  Messer 
Jacopo  Tatti,  called  II  Sansovino  ;  and  M.  Jacopo 
Nardi,  and  I  ;  so  that  I  made  the  fourth  amidst  so 
much  wisdom.  Here,  before  the  tables  were  set 
out,  because  the  sun,  in  spite  of  the  shade,  still 
made  his  heat  much  felt,  we  spent  the  time  in 
looking  at  the  lively  figures  in  the  excellent 
pictures  of  which  the  house  was  full,  and  in  dis- 
cussing the  real  beauty  and  charm  of  the  garden, 
with  singular  pleasure  and  note  of  admiration  of 
all  of  us.  It  is  situated  in  the  extreme  part  of 
Venice,  upon  the  sea,  and  from  it  one  sees  the 
pretty  little  island  of  Murano  and  other  beautiful 
places.  This  part  of  the  sea,  as  soon  as  the  sun 


TITIAN 

went  down,  swarmed  with  gondolas  adorned  with 
beautiful  women,  and  resounded  with  the  varied 
harmony  and  music  of  voices  and  instruments, 
which  till  midnight  accompanied  our  delightful 
supper.  Besides  the  most  delicate  viands  and 
wines,  there  were  all  those  pleasures  and  amuse- 
ments that  are  suited  to  the  season,  the  guests,  and 
the  feast.  Having  just  arrived  at  the  fruit,  your 
letter  came,  and  because  in  praising  the  Latin 
language  the  Tuscan  was  reproved,  Arentino 
became  exceedingly  angry,  and,  if  he  had  not  been 
prevented,  he  would  have  indited  one  of  the  most 
cruel  invectives  in  the  world,  calling  out  furiously 
for  paper  and  inkstand,  though  he  did  not  fail  to 
do  a  good  deal  in  words.  Finally  the  supper 
ended  most  gaily/' 


TITIAN  IN  SAN  MARCO 

And  still  the  Venice  of  Titian  is  growing  more 
beautiful  under  the  touch  of  the  magician's  hand. 
"  Justitia  "  with  the  waving  sword  has  for  a  long 
time  been  a  familiar  sight  at  the  Fondaco.  The 
"  Assumption  of  the  Virgin  "  over  the  altar  in  the 
Church  of  the  Frari,  lighted  by  a  thousand  tapers, 
glows  with  a  splendour  almost  inconceivable.  But 
how  many  more  splendours  have  been  added  to 
these.  The  "  Christ  Bearing  the  Cross  "  at  the 

132 


DOMUS  DEI 

Monastery  of  St.  Andrea  ;  the  Organ  Frontal  at 
the  Gesuati,  long  since,  like  so  many  other  of  his 
works,  destroyed  by  fire  ;  the  "  Jerome  "  of  San 
Fantino  ;  the  "  Annunciation  "  and  the  Death  of 
Peter  Martyr  "at  SS.  Giovanni  e  Paolo;  the  "Angel 
and  Tobit  "  at  Santa  Caterina  ;  the  "  Descent  of 
the  Holy  Spirit"  in  Santa  Maria  della  Salute;  the 
"visitation  of  St.  Elizabeth  "  in  the  Convent  of  St. 
Andrea  ;  the  "Entombment  "  in  the  Church  of  St. 
Angelo  ;  the  "  Presentation  of  the  Virgin  "  in  the 
Convent  of  the  Carita  ;  the  "  St.  John  in  the  Wil- 
derness "  at  Santa  Maria  Maggiore  ;  and  above  all 
the  mosaics  of  St.  Mark's. 

Does  this  seem  to  us  only  a  catalogue  of  eccle- 
siastical buildings  ?  If  so  we  fail  to  realize  the 
passion  of  Catholic  sentiment  with  which  many 
of  the  painters  of  the  Renascence  were  inspired. 
Think  of  Titian,  designing  the  mosaics  of  St. 
Mark's — think  of  the  reverence  of  the  man  for  the 
religion  of  his  fathers — of  the  artist  for  the  most 
precious  of  the  relics  of  a  past  age.  San  Marco 
was  more  to  him  than  a  subject  for  decorative 
treatment.  Like  Michael  Angelo  and  St.  Peter's, 
so  Titian  and  St.  Mark's  have  their  story  to  tell. 
As  he  entered  its  portals  he  would  read  the  inscrip- 
tion— QUAM  TERRIBILIS  LOCUS  ISTE  NON  EST  HIC 
ALIUD  NISI  DOMUS  DEI  ET  PORTA  CGELI.  Titian 

knew  nothing  of  the  intellectual  questionings  of 
Da  Vinci,  nor  of  the  spiritual  strivings  of  Angelo, 

133 


TITIAN 

nor  of  the  agnosticism  of  Correggio.  To  him  the 
relics  of  the  Saint,  which  rest  beneath  the  altar — 
the  altar  itself  with  its  pala  d'ora — the  sacrifice 
offered  there  daily — have  but  one  meaning — 

From  Christ  who  sits  upon  the  great  white  throne, 
To  Christ  in  the  little  shrine  where  pilgrims  kneel, 
It  is  Christ  first,  Christ  last,  and  Christ  alone  : 
The  Dragon  writhes  beneath  His  bruised  heel ; 
The  Mother  holds  the  young  God  in  mute  appeal 
For  worship — veiled  with  incense,  lost  in  light, 
Drowned  in  sweet  music — till  the  mystic  seal 
Is  broken,  and  there  is  silence  in  God's  sight. 

This  is  none  other  than  the  House  of  God, 
This  is  the  gate  of  Heaven.     The  Apostles  stand 
With  Mary  and  Mark,  Christ  in  their  midst,  to  greet 
Those  who  will  enter.     Come — with  naked  feet — 
Fearless — while  yet  the  golden  measuring  rod, 
And  not  the  sword,  is  in  the  angel's  hand. 

Titian  without  his  religion  is  not  Titian — any 
more  than  San  Marco  without  Christ  is  San  Marco 
—or  the  Renascence,  without  the  great  conflict 
between  the  old  faith  and  the  new,  the  Renascence 
of  Art.  But  Titian,  in  the  eighth  decade  of  his 
life,  may  be  compared  to  a  star  in  a  constellation 
still  shining  after  its  fellows  have  set.  Raphael 
has  died,  Correggio  has  died,  Da  Vinci  has  died, 
and  though  Angelo  lingers  in  Rome,  he  has  for  a 
long  time  paintedjonly  for  the  Imperial  City. 
Madrid  and  Paris  and  Augsburg  clamour  for  the 

134 


PLATE  XXIV.       THE  CHRIST  OF  TITIAN 


FROM  THE  PAINTING  IN  THE 
ROYAL  GALLERY,  DRESDEN 


A  VISIT  FROM  VASARI 

work  of  Titian — threatening — persuading — because 
even  his  pencil  cannot  satisfy  all  their  demands. 
The  grave  ecclesiastics  at  the  Council  of  Trent 
turn  from  their  anathemas  to  scan  the  latest  can- 
vas from  his  hand;  and  in  London  a  foreign  Prince, 
mated  to  an  English  Queen,  whom  he  loves  not, 
amuses  himself  with  pretty  "  Magdalenes  "  and 
"  Antiopes,"  who  do  not  fret  him  with  complain- 
ings. As  for  Titian  himself,  he  is  getting  old  ;  his 
home  has  been  twice  made  desolate,  first  by  the 
marriage  of  his  daughter,  then  by  her  death.  And 
his  son,  Pomponio,  the  canon — there  is  trouble  in 
store,  for  he  is  a  spendthrift.  And  then,  that 
young  painter  Tintoretto,  who  is  at  work  in  the 
Ducal  Palace  ! — is  it  not  time  to  begin  to  ask  what 
will  the  end  be  ? 


NEARING  THE  END 

But  the  end  is  not  yet.  Ten  more  years  have 
passed  away,  and  Vasari  is  a  visitor  in  Venice. 
As  we  have  read  from  the  letters  of  Diirer  the 
painter,  and  of  Priscianese  the  scholar,  so  let  us 
turn  for  a  moment  to  the  record  of  the  historian. 
"  Titian  has  enjoyed  health  and  happiness  un- 
equalled, and  has  never  received  from  Heaven 
anything  but  favour  and  felicity.  His  house  has 
been  visited  by  all  the  princes,  men  of  letters,  and 


TITIAN 

gentlemen  who  ever  came  to  Venice.  And  besides 
being  excellent  in  art,  he  is  pleasant  company,  of 
fine  deportment  and  agreeable  manners.  He  has 
had  rivals  in  Venice,  but  none  of  any  great  talent. 
His  earnings  have  been  large.  When  the  writer  of 
this  history,  came  to  Venice  in  1566,  he  went  to 
pay  a  visit  to  Titian  as  a  friend,  and  he  found  him, 
though  very  aged,  with  the  brushes  in  his  hand, 
painting,  and  had  much  pleasure  in  seeing  his 
pictures,  and  conversing  with  him.  Titian  having 
decorated  Venice  and  Italy,  and  other  parts  of 
the  world  with  admirable  pictures,  deserves  to  be 
loved  and  studied  by  artists,  as  one  who  is  still 
doing  works  deserving  of  praise,  which  will  last  as 
long  as  the  memory  of  illustrious  men/' 


THE  CHRIST  OF  PITY 

The  last  sketch — and  it  is  once  more  in  the 
Church  of  the  Frari.  Troubles  are  gathering  on 
the  Venice  of  Titian  thick  and  fast.  The  Great 
Council  have,  indeed,  ordered  that  a  picture  of 
the  battle  of  Lepanto  shall  be  painted  ;  but  that 
victory  has  cost  Venice  her  life-blood.  And  now 
Pestilence,  following  the  footsteps  of  War,  is 
wielding  its  bloody  scourge,  and  nearly  a  third  of 
the  citizens  have  been  swept  into  the  charnel- 
house.  An  old  man,  bent  with  the  weight  of 

136 


SANTA  MARIA  DOLOROSA 

ninety-nine  years,  is  in  the  sacristy,  talking  with 
the  monks.  He  is  pleading  with  them,  he  is 
disputing  with  them.  "  Dear  to  me,"  he  says— 
"  dear  to  me  are  the  mountains  of  Cadore,  and  the 
rushing  waters  of  the  Piave,  and  the  murmur  of 
the  wind  in  the  pine-trees,  where  my  home  lies  far 
away.  But  not  there  !  In  the  city  where  I  have 
laboured  ;  in  the  church  where  I  achieved  my  first 
triumph — bury  me  there  !  Promise  to  bury  me 
there,  and  I  will  yet  live  to  paint  for  you  another 
'  Christ/  a  '  Christ  of  Pity/  that  shall  be  more 
near  to  what  He  is  than  any  that  has  ever  yet 
been  painted,  even  as  I  am  by  so  many  years  the 
nearer  to  seeing  Him  myself." 

The  plague  struck  him  before  the  Pieta  was 
finished,  but  the  promise  was  redeemed.  Santa 
Maria  Gloriosa  has  become  Santa  Maria  Dolo- 
rosa.  For  Titian  lies  beneath  the  Crucifix  in  the 
Church  of  the  Frari  at  Venice. 

With  Titian  died  the  glory  of  Venetian  Art. 
But  as  the  setting  sun  is  sometimes  followed  by 
an  after-glow — a  lingering,  that  is,  of  light — not 
really  brighter  than  the  horizon  has  been  during 
the  day,  but  seeming  brighter  because  the  rest  of 
the  firmament  is  darkening  into  night — so,  after 
Titian,  we  still  turn  towards  Venice  for  the  sake 
of  two  painters  who  were  at  least  worthy  to  be 
his  companions  to  the  last,  and  who,  in  surviving 


TITIAN 

him,  arrested  for  another  decade  the  extinction 
of  the  great  Venetian  school.  Twelve  years  after 
.  Titian,  in  1588,  Paul  Veronese  died,  and  in  another 
six  years,  Tintoretto.  Then  even  the  short  after- 
glow faded,  and  the  night  set  in.  A  night  that  the 
pale  starlight  of  Salviati,  Giovane,  Padovanino, 
Canaletto,  and  Tiepolo  could  not  illuminate  ;  a 
night  not  pleasant  to  look  back  upon  ;  a  night  dis- 
turbed by  evil  dreams ;  but  happily  a  night,  that 
has  at  last  ended.  In  1645  Venice  was  again  at 
war.  The  old  enemy,  the  Turk,  descended  upon 
Candia,  and  for  twenty  years  the  nation  which 
had  been  so  great  in  Art  became  the  cynosure 
of  Europe  for  its  feats  in  arms.  Volunteers  from 
every  country  came  there  to  exercise  their  valour, 
to  acquire  the  military  art,  and  to  assist  a  brave 
people.  The  siege  cost  the  lives  of  two  hundred 
thousand  Moslems,  but  the  Venetians  capitulated 
at  last.  A  few  years  of  respite  followed,  and  then 
another  war,  in  which,  though  the  Republic  was 
victorious,  her  resources  were  exhausted ;  and 
finally,  while  the  dawn  was  still  far  distant,  at  the 
close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  Venice,  which  had 
sold  its  nobility  as  merchandise,  was  itself  sold  as 
merchandise  to  the  Austrians. 

It  is  a  terrible  story,  and  belongs  rather  to  the 
pages  of  History  than  to  the  literature  of  Art. 
But  when  the  unworthy  descendants  of  a  Dandolo 
surrender  without  a  struggle  the  independence  of 

138 


THE  VENICE  OF  ITALY 

a  thousand  years,  it  is  vain  to  look  amongst  them 
for  men  worthy  to  be  the  successors  of  a  Titian. 
When  the  Queen  of  the  Adriatic  is  content  to  see 
her  "  Golden  Book/'  the  record  of  her  senators, 
burned  in  the  market-place,  it  is  time  for  three 
ships  of  the  line  and  two  frigates  to  sail  out  of 
her  harbours  laden  with  spoils  of  the  richest  of 
her  treasures  of  Art.  Is  there — can  there  be — an 
ending  to  such  a  night  as  this  ? 

Yes,  the  dawn  has  come  at  last.  Venice  has 
been  redeemed.  It  is  indeed  no  more  the  Venice 
of  Titian,  any  more  than  it  is  the  Venice  of  Dante 
or  Byron.  It  is  the  Venice  of  the  new  world,  not 
of  the  old.  It  is  the  Venice  of  Italy.  All  that  is 
beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  the  painter  is  still  there  ; 
all  that  is  dear  to  the  poet  is  to  be  remembered 
of  her.  But  the  glory  which  streams  along  the 
heights  of  blue  Friuli's  mountains  is  no  longer  a 
dying  glory,  but  a  living.  For  the  sons  of  Italy 
are  once  more  united  and  strong.  How  then  can 
it  be  otherwise  with  her  daughters  than  that  they 
shall  be  happy  and  safe  ? 


139 


RAPHAEL 


LA  MADRE.  But  the  child?  Why  must  you 
paint  the  child?  It  is  my  portrait  only  that  my 
husband  desires. 

RAPHAEL  /  must  paint  the  child  because  of 
the  Angel. 


PLATE    XXV.       FROM  THE  PAINTING 
IN  THE  PITTI  PALACE 


RAPHAEL 


j  ND  now  we  come  to 
thejyoungsters  of 
[the  group.  Are  not 
three  old  men  suf- 
ficient in  a  little 
company  of  five  ? 
Raphael  did  not 
live  to  grow  old — 
nor  did  Correggio. 
If  we  compare  the 
period  of  the  Re- 
nascence of  Art  with  the  ordinary  course  of  a 
natural  year,  from  January  to  December,  it  is  as 
though  Leonardo  Da  Vinci  had  been  the  first  to 
break  the  frozen  earth  ;  that  in  March  Angelo  and 
Titian  had  been  sent  to  sow  the  seed  with  him  ; 
that  Raphael  and  Correggio  had  come  with  the 

143 


RAPHAEL 

flowers  in  May — and  in  August  and  September  had 
carried  away  their  sheaves  rejoicing  ;  that  Da 
Vinci  had  died  during  the  harvest ;  and  that 
Angelo  and  Titian  had  lingered  through  the  golden 
Autumn,  till  the  fields  were  dark,  and  the  earth 
once  more  frozen  with  the  closing  of  the  year. 
We  know  that  with  the  new  year  new  men  came— 
Rubens,  and  Claude,  and  Velasquez,  and  Murillo, 
and  Vandyke,  and  Rembrandt — but  that  is  the 
sequel  to  my  story — not  to  be  anticipated. 

At  this  moment  an  incident  occurs  of  more  than 
ordinary  interest.  Just  as  Raphael  is  beginning 
his  career  in  Rome,  while  Michael  Angelo  is  paint- 
ing in  the  Sistine  Chapel,  one  more  of  the  antique 
statues — perhaps  the  most  famous  of  them  all- 
is  discovered,  and  purchased  by  Julius  II.  for  the 
Vatican.  It  is  the  marble  group  known  as  the 
Laocoon.  The  finding  of  this  statue  marks  an 
epoch  in  the  history  of  Art.  It  must  have  been  to 
Michael  Angelo  as  great  a  revelation  as  was  the 
first  reading  of  the  Bible  to  Luther.  The  question 
at  issue  had  been  whether  the  grand  forms  of  the 
Antique  could  be  reconciled  with  realistic  fidelity 
to  Nature.  In  the  Laocoon  came  at  least  an 
approach  to  an  answer.  The  group  expressed 
passion  ;  it  was  true  to  Nature  ;  and  yet  it  was 
Classic  Art.  At  the  time  of  its  discovery  Angelo 
was  designing  his  great  painting  of  the  Dies  Irce  ; 

144 


THE  LAOCOON 

and  we  can  trace  in  the  mighty  limbs  of  the 
avenging  God,  and  of  the  men  called  to  the  bar 
of  judgment,  something  of  the  modelling  of  the 
Trojan  hero  and  his  sons  struggling  in  the  coils 
of  the  serpents.  The  problem  which  had  been  so 
long  before  the  Schools  was  solved — once  and  for 
ever.  It  is  possible  through  classic  forms  to 
express  the  passion  of  human  life,  as  surely  as  the 
beauty  of  the  human  form. 

The  newly-discovered  statue,  however,  played 
so  momentous  a  part  in  the  evolution  of  the 
Renascence  that  we  shall  do  well  to  consider  it  a 
little  carefully.  The  subject  is  taken  from  a 
passage  in  Virgil.  A  priest  of  Apollo  is  offering 
sacrifice  to  Neptune  with  solemn  pomp  on  the 
sea  shore.  By  his  side  are  two  children.  Suddenly, 
from  the  waves  of  the  sea,  come  horrible  monsters, 
cruel  and  fierce  serpents.  Swiftly  they  advance 
towards  Laocoon — 

And  first  about  the  tender  boys  they  wind, 
Then  with  their  fangs  their  limbs  and  bodies  grind. 

The  father  attempts  to  save  his  children  ;  but  in 
vain.  In  an  instant  he  also  is  in  the  dreadful  coils 
of  the  serpents,  and  his  terrific  shriek  is  in  our  ears 
as  the  scene  closes.  This  is  the  incident  chosen 
by  the  sculptors,  and  how  do  they  render  it  ?  The 
convulsed  limbs,  the  quivering  flesh,  represent 


RAPHAEL 

the  torture  of  the  body — the  agonised  glance  to 
heaven  tells  of  the  conflict  of  the  soul. 

But  I  turn  to  the  writings  of  one  who  is  com- 
mitted to  the  theory  that  the  standard  of  Art  is 
Greek  Art — and  that  Greek  Art  does  not  permit 
the  expression  of  passion.  "  The  Laocoon,"  says 
a  distinguished  Professor,  in  the  pages  of  a  colossal 
Encyclopaedia,  "  may  be  regarded  as  the  triumph 
of  Grecian  sculpture ;  since  bodily  pain — the 
grossest  and  most  ungovernable  of  our  passions— 
and  that  pain  united  with  anguish  and  torture  of 
mind — is  softened  into  a  patient  sigh.  The  hor- 
rible shriek  which  Virgil's  Laocoon  emits  is  a 
proper  circumstance  for  Poetry  ;  the  expression 
of  it  would  have  totally  degraded  Art." 

What  would  the  young  Raphael  have  thought 
of  such  criticism  as  this — if  he  had  discovered  it  in 
an  Encyclopaedia  of  the  day  adorning  the  shelves 
of  the  library  of  the  Vatican  ?  I  think  he  would 
have  strolled  into  the  Sistine  Chapel,  and  shown 
it  to  Michael  Angelo,  and  the  two  would  have 
laughed  over  it  together.  For,  while  it  is  true 
that  in  Greek  Art  we  find  no  expression  of  pain, 
in  the  Laocoon  pain  is  expressed  with  a  vividness 
of  realism,  almost  without  a  parallel  in  the  art  of 
sculpture.  But  the  Laocoon  is  not  Greek  Art.  It 
was  executed  at  a  Roman  Court — under  Roman 
patronage — in  illustration  of  a  Roman  poem — 
centuries  after  Greece  had  become  a  Roman 

.     146  


PLAYING  AT  MARBLES 

province.  It  represents  in  Art  the  transition  from 
the  severe  serenity  of  Hellas  to  the  stormy  atmo- 
sphere of  the  Capitol.  Moreover,  if  the  Laocoon 
does  not  express  passion,  so  far  from  being  a 
triumph  of  Hellenic  sculpture  it  is  nothing  more 
than  a  clever  anatomical  model.  In  a  word — it 
is  not  Art  at  all — it  is  Science. 

But  it  is  not  Professors  alone,  or  Encyclopaed- 
ists, or  Admirals  of  the  British  Fleet,  who  possess 
the  accommodative  apparatus  of  a  blind  eye. 
Voluntarily,  or  involuntarily,  "  the  other  side  of 
the  question  "  is  almost  invariably  overlooked  by 
amateur  writers  on  Art.  In  Art,  however,  not  to 
see  is  as  fatal  to  a  right  judgment  as  to  see  falsely. 
In  my  old  student  days  at  the  British  Museum,  a 
Royal  visit  was  announced.  The  lads  and  lasses 
of  the  classes,  however,  were  not  driven  from  the 
gracious  presence.  Some  of  us  stood  to  our  easels 
— other  some  retired  modestly  behind  convenient 
pedestals.  Among  the  visitors  was  a  beautiful 
lady,  with  her  two  boys — who  for  all  I  know  may 
be  sitting  upon  thrones  now.  As  the  illustrious 
group  reached  the  gallery  containing  the  sculptures 
of  the  Parthenon,  we  were  privileged  to  hear  a 
little  conversation.  "  These,"  said  their  learned 
guide,  "  are  the  Elgin  marbles."  "  Dear  me," 
replied  the  lady,  "  I  always  thought  that  marbles 
were  round." 

147 


RAPHAEL 

That  is  the  effect  of  the  blind  eyey  as  distinct 
from  the  crooked  vision.  To  the  painters  of  the 
Awakening — to  Margaritone,  Cimabue,  and  Giotto, 
perhaps  even  to  Fra  Angelico — there  must  have 
been  a  blank  comparable  to  this.  But  not  to 
Raphael.  If  the  painters  of  the  thirteenth  and 
fourteenth  centuries  had  not  seen  the  gods,  it  was 
because — as  in  the  case  of  the  Spanish  fleet— 
"  they  were  not  yet  in  sight !  "  But  Raphael  had 
seen  them.  Whether  Raphael  played  at  marbles 
when  a  boy,  and  assumed  that  marbles  are  neces- 
sarily round,  there  is  no  evidence  to  show.  But 
it  is  certain  that  he  had  slept  upon  Parnassus 
before  he  entered  the  schools,  and  knew  the  differ- 
ence between  a  cherub  and  a  cupid.  To  Leonardo 
da  Vinci,  and  Michael  Angelo,  and  Titian,  the 
discovery  of  the  antique  statues  had  come  as 
sudden  and  surprising  visions — one  at  a  time — as 
if  the  Immortals  had  occasionally  descended  from 
Olympus  to  encourage  them  in  their  Art.  First 
came  Phoebus — the  Apollo  Belvedere — to  show 
them  the  serene  beauty  of  a  god.  Then  Aphrodite 
— the  Venus  di  Medici — to  show  them  how  lovely 
a  woman  could  be.  Then  Herakles — the  Hercules 
Farnese — to  show  them  the  strength  of  a  hero. 
But  Raphael  found  all  these  in  full  possession  of 
the  studio.  They  were  his  by  inheritance.  The 
ideas  they  created  in  his  mind  were  definite.  He 
found  that  Christian  Art  and  Pagan  Art  agreed 

148 


MOUNT  OLYMPUS 

in  this — that  they  took  the  human  form  as  the 
exponent  of  what  they  had  to  express.  He  found 
that  they  differed,  in  that  through  the  human  form 
they  expressed  sentiments  wide  as  the  Poles 
asunder.  Classic  Art  tells  us  everything  that  can 
be  told  of  the  strength,  and  grace,  and  beauty  of 
the  human  form  ;  but  of  the  life  itself,  of  which 
these  things  are  only  the  manifestation,  it  tells  us 
nothing.  Sorrow  is  an  evil  thing — why  should  it 
find  perpetual  remembrance  in  Art  ?  Pain  will 
touch  our  bodies,  be  they  ever  so  fair — but  we 
need  not  mar  our  statues  with  its  cruel  touch ! 
We  seek  the  beautiful,  and  suffering  is  not  beauti- 
ful ;  so,  though  its  anguish  may  crush  our  lives, 
yet  in  Art  at  least  we  can  cast  it  from  our  sight. 
And  thus  sorrow,  and  suffering,  and  pain,  were 
excluded  from  Classic  Art — but  at  what  a  cost ! 
There  can  be  no  compassion  without  suffering,  no 
deep  sympathy  without  sorrow,  no  heroic  endur- 
ance without  pain.  In  losing  these  things,  there- 
fore, Art  lost  also  the  expression  of  all  the  tenderest 
and  noblest  emotions  of  which  our  natures  are 
capable. 

But  that  was  Mount  Olympus — where  the  gods 
reigned ;  a  mount  covered  with  pleasant  woods, 
and  caves,  and  grottoes  ;  on  its  top  were  neither 
wind,  nor  rain,  nor  cloud,  but  an  eternal  Spring. 
The  face  of  the  Christian  painter,  however,  was 
set  towards  another  Mount — where  One  suffered — 

149 


RAPHAEL 

and  from  whence  the  Message  came  to  him.  It 
was  as  though  the  Greek  had  seen  the  Angel,  but 
amidst  the  laughter  of  the  gods  had  not  heard  the 
Message.  It  was  as  though  the  Christian  had  heard 
the  Message — but  in  the  darkness  of  Calvary  failed 
to  see  the  divine  beauty  of  the  Angel. 

It  is  as  the  great  reconciler  of  these  two  ideals 
that  Raphael  stands  supreme.  But  it  would  be 
well  for  lovers  of  Art,  if  they  could  read,  and 
think,  and  write,  about  Raphael  without  hysterics. 
The  sober  truth  is  sufficient  to  fill  the  mind  with 
noble  thoughts,  and  make  one  conscious  of  the 
presence  of  a  great  genius.  /  want  to  get  clear  of 
the  blind  eye,  and  of  the  crooked  vision — andy  in  the 
presence  of  Raphael  himself,  to  understand  his  aim, 
his  method,  his  achievement.  Again  I  turn  to  a 
distinguished  critic,  and  beg  from  Schlegel  an 
introduction  to  the  mind  of  the  painter.  Schlegel, 
being  a  German,  is  of  course  a  philosopher.  Listen 
to  him,  commenting  upon  Raphael's  Saint  Cecilia — 
in  the  gallery  of  Bologna.  The  figure  of  the  girl 
is  so  lovely  that  I  have  selected  it  as  one  of  my 
illustrations.  But  the  whole  picture  contains 
many  more  figures  of  astonishing  beauty.  "  There 
is  in  it/'  says  Schlegel,  "  a  ravishing  sentiment  of 
intense,  inward  devotion,  which,  incapable  of 
being  restrained  within  the  narrow  limits  of  the 
human  heart,  breaks  forth  in  song — everything 

150 


PLATE    XXVII.       THE   CHRIST   OF    RAPHAEL 


FROM  THE  PAINTING  OF 
THE   TRANSFIGURATION 


A  GERMAN  PHILOSOPHER 

melting  away  in  a  devout  inspiration  of  silent 
devotion,  like  the  long  drawn  solemn  tones  of  a 
cathedral  organ.'*  And  again — "  St.  Paul,  with 
the  mighty  sword,  reminds  us  of  those  old  melodies 
which  could  melt  rocks,  tame  savage  beasts,  and 
tear  soul  and  spirit  asunder/*  Again — "  The  har- 
monious grandeur  of  the  Magdalene,  resembling 
the  Madonna,  reminds  us  of  the  pure  unisons  re- 
sounding in  the  abode  of  blessed  spirits.  The  soul 
of  Cecilia  seems  as  if  soaring  on  a  ray  of  dazzling 
brightness  to  meet  the  harmony  descending.  The 
child-like  ring  of  little  angels  are  a  divine  rever- 
beration of  the  harmony."  And  once  more — as  if 
all  that  were  not  enough — Schlegel  adds,  "  The 
holy  hymn  reposes  on  a  basis  of  transparent  fore- 
ground ;  but  the  execution  is  in  the  highest  degree 
solid." 

This  is  no  doubt  intended  to  be  complimentary 
to  Raphael.  But  would  Raphael  have  liked  it  ? 
I  think  not.  The  greater  part  of  it  of  course  means 
nothing  ;  but  where  it  does  mean  anything  it  is 
untrue.  A  thing  cannot  be  silent  if  it  is  like  the 
sound  of  a  cathedral  organ.  The  heavenly  choir 
is  not  a  child-like  ring  of  little  angels.  The  sword 
on  which  St.  Paul  lays  his  hand  is  not  particularly 
large  ;  but  Schlegel  has  missed  entirely  the  fine 
symbolism  of  it — the  sword  is  naked.  All  this, 
however,  is  the  effect  of  the  blind  eye.  But  now 
the  crooked  vision  comes  in.  What  could  have 


RAPHAEL 

wounded  Raphael  so  deeply  as  the  suggestion 
that  he  failed  to  discriminate  between  the  loveli- 
ness of  the  Madonna,  and  the  beauty  of  the  woman 
with  a  past  ?  That  charge  might  have  been 
brought  against  some  of  the  painters  of  the  Renas- 
cence— but  not  against  the  painter  of  the  Madonna 
di  San  Sisto. 

I  do  not  care  then  for  Schlegel's  introduction  to 
Raphael.  I  would  rather  venture  into  the  painter's 
presence  alone,  as  an  unknown  visitor  ;  or  spend 
a  day  in  the  Loggia  of  the  Vatican  ;  or  stand 
before  his  cartoons  and  think  it  out  for  myself. 
And  yet,  in  a  matter  of  such  great  moment  as  the 
interpretation  of  the  works  of  a  world-renowned 
painter,  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  fall  back  upon 
some  world- renowned  authority.  Perhaps  the 
German  mind  is  too  philosophical.  I  will  turn  to 
France.  France,  we  know,  is  the  inner  shrine  of 
the  Temple  of  Art,  and  Frenchmen  are  the  high 
priests  of  the  cult.  Very  well,  then — I  take  up  a 
volume  by  the  Secretary  of  the  French  Academy. 
It  is  the  famous  Reflections  on  Poetry  and  Art, 
by  the  Abbe  du  Bos.  The  Abbe  is  describing  how, 
in  the  cartoon  of  the  Miraculous  Draught  of  Fishes, 
Raphael  has  given  to  every  head  a  different  char- 
acter, corresponding  closely  with  the  known  char- 
acteristics of  the  Apostles.  One  head  in  particular 
he  points  out  as  a  marvellous  impersonation  of 

152 


A  FRENCH  ACADEMICIAN 

Judas.  The  expression,  he  says,  is  sullen  and  con- 
fused, as  though  the  traitor  was  consumed  with 
black  jealousy." 

Now  this  figure — which  the  Abbe  supposes  to 
be  Iscariot — the  reverend  author  of  a  famous 
Dictionary  of  Painters,  claims  as  one  of  the  faith- 
ful disciples  ;  urging  that  Raphael  could  not  have 
been  guilty  of  so  gross  an  anachronism  as  to  have 
introduced  so  infamous  a  wretch  into  the  company 
of  the  Apostles — considering  that  at  the  time  of 
the  miracle  Judas  was  already  dead  !  And  to  this 
he  adds  naively — "  The  best  apology  that  can  be 
made  for  the  Abbe  is  that  he  was  much  better 
acquainted  with  the  works  of  Raphael  than  with 
the  work  of  the  Evangelists." 

This,  coming  from  one  churchman  to  another, 
is  sufficiently  severe.  It  does  not,  however,  bring 
us  any  nearer  to  Raphael.  How  much  either  of 
the  divines  had  read  of  the  sacred  narrative  I  know 
not — but  both  of  them  are  in  error.  The  miracle 
occurred  twice.  The  subject  of  Raphael's  cartoon 
is  the  calling  of  Peter  to  the  Apostleship — not  the 
appearance  of  our  Lord  after  His  resurrection. 
At  that  time  the  number  of  the  Apostles  was  not 
complete — Judas  was  not  one  of  the  Twelve. 

Thus  the  criticism  which  begins  with  a  sort  of 
apotheosis  of  the  thing  criticised  ends  with  a  dis- 
puted claim,  whether  the  same  face  is  a  splendid 
realization  of  the  evil  passions  of  the  arch-traitor, 

153 


RAPHAEL 

or  an  equally  splendid  realization  of  the  tender 
affection,  and  awe-struck  reverence,  of  a  faithful 
disciple  greeting  his  risen  Lord. 

But  where  is  the  painter  all  the  while  ?  and 
what  ideas  are  forming  in  our  own  minds  regarding 
his  work  ?  France  has  not  enlightened  us  any 
more  than  Germany.  Let  us  come  back  to  En- 
gland. We  come  back  to  meet  the  rebound. 
Before  Raphael  stands  the  iconoclast  instead  of 
the  worshipper.  The  hammer  has  taken  the  place 
of  the  thurible  ;  and  the  dust  which  goes  up  to 
heaven,  as  the  works  of  the  great  painter  are 
smitten  to  the  ground,  veils  from  us  their  splendour 
as  effectually  as  did  the  incense  of  their  apotheosis. 
To  Mr.  Ruskin  it  is  but  a  small  matter  to  have 
demolished  such  painters  as  Claude,  and  Cuyp,  and 
Ppussin,  and  Salvator  Rosa,  and  Ruysdael,  and 
Tenniers,  and  Paul  Potter,  with  Vandervelde, 
Backhuysen,  "  and  various  other  Van-somethings 
and  Back-somethings,  who  especially  and  malig- 
nantly have  libelled  the  sea."  But  having  com- 
mitted these  to  the  flames,  he  passes  to  the  one 
painter  of  whom  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
from  him  every  artist  born  into  the  world  for  four 
hundred  years  has  learned  his  Art.  Mr.  Ruskin 
informs  us  that  from  the  time  he  came  of  age  the 
cartoons  of  Raphael  began  to  take  to  him  "  the 
aspect  of  a  mild  nightmare."  In  his  later  years 

154 


AN  OXFORD  PROFESSOR 

the  nightmare  ceased  to  be  mild,  it  became  very 
severe  indeed.     He  assures  us  that  Raphael  could 
think  of  the  Madonna  only  as  an  available  subject 
for  the  display  of  skilful  tints,  transparent  shadows, 
and  clever  foreshortenings — as  a  fair  woman  form- 
ing a  pleasant  piece  of  furniture  for  the  corner  of 
a  boudoir.     And  then,  after  describing  with  exqui- 
site pathos  the  apparition  of  Jesus  to  His  disciples 
on  the  Lake  of  Galilee,  he  contrasts  Raphael's 
painting  of  it  with  the  actual  occurrence.     He 
says  :    "  Note  the  handsomely  curled  hair,  and 
neatly  tied  sandals  of  the  men,  who  have  been  out 
all  night  in  the  sea  mists  and  on  the  slimy  decks. 
Note  the  convenient  dresses  for  going  a-fishing — 
with  trains  that  lie  a  yard  along  the  ground — and 
the  goodly  fringes,  all  made  to  match — an  Apos- 
tolic fishing  costume  !     Note  how  St.  Peter,  es- 
pecially, whose  chief  glory  was  his  wet  coat  girt 
about  his  naked  limbs,  is  enveloped  in  folds  and 
fringes  so  as  to  hold  the  keys  with  grace.     And 
the  Apostles  are  not  around  Christ,  as  they  would 
have  been,  but  straggling  away  in  a  line,  that  they 
may  all  be  shown.     Beyond  is  a  pleasant  Italian 
landscape,  full  of  villas,  and  churches.     The  whole 
thing  is  a  mere  absurdity  and  faded  decoction  of 
fringes,  muscular  arms,  and  curly  heads  ;   and  the 
wild,   strange,   infinitely   stern,   infinitely   tender, 
infinitely  varied  veracities  of  the  life  of  Christ  are 
blotted  out  by  the  vapid  fineries  of  Raphael." 


RAPHAEL 

But  when  a  painter  wins  his  way  into  the  hearts 
of  the  people  of  many  nations,  and  holds  his  place 
there  for  four  centuries,  it  is  probable  that  his  work 
expresses  something  more  than  Schlegel's,  "  silent 
harmonies  of  pure  unisons/'  or  Ruskin's  "  decoc- 
tion of  fringes  and  curly  heads.'1  //  therefore  we 
can  discover  what  these  men  have  left  out  of  account 
we  shall  find  the  real  Raphael.  It  is  for  the  real 
Raphael  that  I  plead.  If  Raphael  is  to  be  any- 
thing to  any  one  of  us — he  must  find  his  way  into 
our  hearts  through  his  own  works.  There  are  a 
few  principles — not  opinions — but  principles,  we 
should  do  well  to  remember.  Nature  is  complete 
— always  and  everywhere  complete,  comprehend- 
ing all  the  splendour  of  life  and  passion  as  well  as 
of  material  beauty.  Art  can  but  reflect  these 
things  as  visions  seen  through  a  broken  mirror. 
Nature  includes  all.  Art  is  eclectic,  choosing  one 
phase  or  another  as  it  affects  the  mind  of  the  artist, 
or  as  he  can  interpret  it  through  his  material.  To 
complain  that  Raphael  was  not  a  realist  is  as  futile 
as  to  complain  that  the  sculptor  does  not  distin- 
guish between  brown  eyes  and  blue.  When  a  man 
is  suffering  from  nightmare,  however,  his  judgment 
is  not  at  its  best.  Mr.  Ruskin  has  failed  to  per- 
ceive that  Raphael's  cartoons  are  not  transcripts 
from  nature,  but  symbols  of  the  History  of  the 
Church.  One  subject  is  Christ's  Charge  to  Peter- 
that  is,  the  Giving  of  the  Keys.  How  shall  the 


IMPERIAL  PURPLE 

keys  of  Heaven  and  Hell  be  painted,  except 
by  symbol  ?  Will  they  not  turn  in  their  locks  un- 
less they  are  of  Chubb's  patent  ?  The  Sheep — for 
whom  Christ  died— are  symbols.  Should  Raphael 
have  anticipated  Sidney  Cooper,  by  making  it 
clear  that  they  were  Southdowns  ?  The  villas  and 
churches  are  Italian.  Is  not  Italy  then  within  the 
Fold  for  which  Peter  should  care  ?  Peter  himself 
is  a  symbol — of  the  Church.  Not  of  the  Church 
suffering,  nor  the  Church  militant — but  the  Church 
ruling.  And  the  insignia  of  rule  is  the  purple  of 
princely  garments. 

No  doubt  the  two  conceptions  of  the  subject  are 
very  wide  apart.  Which  was  the  nobler,  where 
both  are  so  noble,  it  is  not  necessary  to  determine. 
But  taking  the  highest  ground,  Raphael's  ideal 
was  not  less  truthful  than  that  of  his  critic.  Mr. 
Ruskin  dwells  on  the  scene  until  the  very  ground 
seems  hallowed  by  the  Master's  footsteps,  and  he 
would  not  lose  the  sea-mist,  or  the  dripping 
garments,  or  the  dishevelled  hair — are  they  not  all 
parts  of  the  wild,  strange,  infinitely  stern,  infinitely 
tender  story  ?  All  this  might  have  been  also  in 
Raphael's  mind.  Yet  he  broke  clean  through  the 
accessories,  and  seeing  beyond  them  the  Divine 
Majesty  of  Christ,  and  the  glory  almost  divine  of 
the  Prince  of  the  Apostles,  dared  to  express  these 
things  through  the  splendour  of  symmetry  and 
grace. 

157 


RAPHAEL 

We  have  by  this  time  seen  Raphael  under  many 
disguises.     We  have  seen  him  first,  as  the  painter 
of  Madonnas,  which  remind  a  German  professor 
of  the  Magdalen.     Then,  as  the  painter  of  a  face 
so  expressive  that  it  will  serve  a  French  Academi- 
cian  either   for   the   arch-traitor,   or   for   a   true 
disciple.     Last  of  all,  we  have  seen  him  as  the 
painter  of  the  Oxford  "  decoction  of  fringes,  mus- 
cular arms,  and  curly  heads/'     But  is  this  really 
the  last  disguise  ?     I  fear  not.     Raphael  has  yet 
to  be  presented  to  us  as  the  painter  of  "  nothing  in 
particular."     Robert  Browning  says- 
Raphael  made  a  century  of  sonnets ; 
Made,  and  wrote  them  in  a  certain  volume, 
Dinted  with  the  silver  pointed  pencil 
Else  he  only  used  to  draw  Madonnas. 

Now  of  all  things  I  will  not  be  hypercritical. 
That  the  quality  of  poetry  does  not  depend  upon 
the  pen  or  pencil  used — that  Raphael,  being  a 
skilled  craftsman,  would  not  have  dinted  the  paper 
— these  things  matter  very  little.  What  does 
matter  is  that  so  great  a  poet  as  Browning  should 
say  that  he  would  rather  see  that  volume  than 
all  the  Madonnas  Raphael  ever  painted — because  to 
read  those  sonnets  so  written  would  be  to  listen  to 
the  beating  of  the  heart  of  Raphael  himself. 

This  is  indeed  the  giving  away  of  Art.  Is  it 
then  the  tribute  of  a  poet  to  the  superiority  of  his 

158 


flanfstaengl 


PLATE  XXVIII        THE  MADONNA  DI  SAN  SISTO 

FROM  THE  ROWVL  GALLERY,  DRESDEN 


AN  ENGLISH  POET 

own  cult  ?  By  no  means.  For  in  the  next  stanza 
Browning  deals  with  poetry  precisely  as  he  had 
dealt  with  painting.  He  says — 

Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel — 
You  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel, 
Painted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 
Would  we  not  ?    than  read  a  fresh  Inferno. 

This  is  nothing  less  than  the  very  undoing  of 
Poetry  and  Art  alike.  For,  think  what  it  means> 
if  it  has  any  meaning  at  all.  It  means  that  the 
highest  expression  of  a  man's  heart  and  brain  is 
to  be  looked  for— if  he  be  a  poet  in  his  amateur 
sketches — if  he  be  a  painter  in  his  attempts  at 
versification. 

Is  there  any  remedy  for  fantasies  such  as  these 
—the  fantasies  of  professors,  of  ecclesiastics,  of 
critics,  of  poets  ?  I  know  of  none,  except  the 
touch  of  Ithuriel's  spear.  Eve  lies  asleep  in  Para- 
dise. Gabriel,  the  archangel,  has  learned  that  an 
evil  spirit  has  crept  in  through  the  gates.  He 
gives  to  Ithuriel  a  troop  of  angels  and  charges 
them  to  search  the  garden  for  the  arch  enemy. 
The  sun  has  set.  Night  has  cast  her  shadow  on 
the  hills.  The  guard  of  angels  can  see  but  dimly 
through  the  perfumed  air.  Over  and  around 
them  are  laurel  and  myrtle,  iris  of  all  hues,  roses 
and  jessamine — at  their  feet  is  a  mosaic  of  violet 


RAPHAEL 

and  crocus  and  hyacinth.    What  malign  form  shall 
Ithuriel  drag  forth  from  such  a  hiding  place  ? 

On  he  leads  his  radiant  files 
Dazzling  the  moon — 

Him,  there  they  found, 
Squat  like  a  toad,  close  at  the  ear  of  Eve, 
Essaying  by  his  devilish  art  to  reach 
The  organs  of  her  fancy,  and  with  them  forge 
Illusions,  phantasms,  discontented  thoughts, 
Vain  thoughts,  vain  aims,  inordinate  desires. 

Milton  does  not  say  anything  about  unjust 
criticism,  or  invincible  prejudice,  or  the  blind  eye  ; 
but  then,  Milton's  angels,  although  they  included 
a  "  Michael "  and  a  "  Raphael,"  were  not  the  Seven 
Angels  of  the  Renascence.  Milton  says  only— 

Him  they  found — the  grisly  king — 
Squat  like  a  toad,  close  at  the  ear  of  Eve. 

Him,  Ithuriel  with  his  spear 
,  Touched  lightly — for  no  falsehood  can  endure 
Touch  of  celestial  temper,  but  returns 
Of  force  to  its  own  likeness — 

The  fiend  looked  up,  and  fled, 
Murmuring,  and  with  him  fled  the  shades  of  night. 

And  yet,  after  all,  the  old  Paradise  was  lost. 
Who  are  the  Angels  of  the  Renascence  that  they 
should  save  for  us  our  Paradise  of  Art  ?  Which  of 
them  carries  Ithuriel's  spear  ?  I  think  that  if  we 
were  Greeks  we  should  build  a  temple  to  Truth, 
and  consecrate  Raphael  as  its  high  priest. 

1 60 


A  DREAM  IN  FLORENCE 

For  the  whole  question  of  what  is  great  in  Art 
turns  upon  the  faculty  of  seeing  things  in  their 
true  shape.  The  figure  of  St.  Cecilia,  as  described 
in  Schlegel's  rhapsodies,  is  not  a  true  shape — 
it  is  inflated  ;  but  is  that  the  fault  of  Raphael  ? 
or  not  rather  of  Schlegel  himself  ?  The  kneeling 
Peter,  assumes  to  Mr.  Ruskin  the  proportions  of 
a  nightmare  ;  but  is  that  through  defect  of  the 
painter,  or  not  rather  of  the  professor  ?  It  is  good 
for  the  artist  to  dream  sometimes — but  there  are 
dreams,  and  dreams.  Are  there  not  Midsummer 
Nights,  and  Walpurgis  Nights  ?  I  remember  a 
lovely  evening — and  night — in  Florence.  The  day 
had  been  very  hot.  Towards  sunset  there  came 
a  sudden  chill.  I  had  lingered  over  my  painting 
too  long  at  an  open  window.  Then  I  discovered 
that  I  was  very  cold.  That  night  I  lay  as  if 
wrapped  in  flame.  The  mosquitoes  sang  to  me 
the  old  song  we  know  so  well  ;  soprano — -s-s-s  ; 
alto — z-z-z-z  ;  tenore — m-m-m-m  ;  basso — boom- 
boom-boom,  like  the  sound  of  Mighty  Tom  of 
Oxford.  The  four  strings  of  a  violin  might  have 
been  tuned  to  their  four  voices.  But  they  could 
not  sing  me  to  sleep.  Across  the  square  was  Santa 
Maria  Novella.  Through  the  open  window  the 
cathedral  and  campanile  looked  in  upon  me  as  I 
looked  out  on  them— before  it  fell  dark.  Down 
by  the  river  was  the  Uffizi  with  Raphael's  picture 
of  the  Madonna  and  the  Goldfinch.  Beyond  the 

161 

i  a- (2389) 


RAPHAEL 

Arno  was  San  Miniato — and  in  the  far  distance, 
amongst  the  hills,  Fiesole.  I  could  hear  on  the 
pavement  quick  footsteps — of  the  black  brothers 
of  the  Misericordia — ready  in  a  moment  to  carry 
me  to  the  Campo  Santo.  In  the  Accademia  delle 
Belle  Arti,  close  by,  I  knew  that  the  young  Da- 
vid— Michael  Angelo's  David — was  watching  to 
save  me  from  the  Philistines. 

How  much  of  all  this  was  reality  ?  How  much 
of  it  was  only  dreaming  ?  The  curious  thing  is 
that  every  element  of  it  that  was  real  has  vanished 
—while  everything  of  the  nature  of  a  dream  re- 
mains. The  suffering  was  real,  but  it  passed  away, 
as  I  recovered.  The  mosquitoes  were  real — but 
they  disappeared  with  the  summer.  The  black 
brothers  of  the  Misericordia  were  real,  but  it  was 
another  threshold  that  they  crossed,  not  mine. 
Nothing  of  that  wild  night  shall  I  ever  see  again, 
except  its  architecture,  its  sculpture,  and  a  paint- 
ing by  Raphael.  Perhaps  Art  is  after  all  nothing 
but  a  dream.  Very  well,  then,  I  say  that  even  as 
a  dream  it  is  so  great  a  thing,  and  our  knowledge 
of  it  is  so  limited,  that  we  cannot  afford  to  let  it 
pass,  forgotten  as  a  vision  of  the  night.  Still  less 
can  we  afford  to  make  of  it  a  nightmare.  If  Art 
is  only  a  dream,  let  us  at  least  take  care  before 
we  begin  our  dreaming  that  we  do  not  fall  asleep, 
like  Eve,  with  a  toad  squat  close  to  our  ear. 

162 


RAPHAEL  AND  DA  VINCI 

And  now  a  woman's  voice  is  heard.  The  world 
has  been  talking  about  Raphael  for  a  long  while. 
But  a  woman  began  it.  This  very  day,  October 
1st,  just  four  hundred  years  ago,  the  beautiful 
Giovanna  della  Rovere — sister  of  the  Duke  of 
Urbino — wrote  to  her  friend  Solderini,  the  Gon- 
faloniere  of  Firenze,  immortalized  by  his  criticism 
of  the  nose  of  David.  Raphael,  she  says,  is  visiting 
Florence,  and  his  ambition  is  to  meet  the  great 
painter,  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  "  As  his  father  was 
dear  to  me,  so  is  the  son  ;  a  modest  youth,  of 
distinguished  manners.  I  bear  him  an  affection 
on  every  account,  and  wish  that  he  should  attain 
perfection/'  Raphael,  at  the  time,  had  just  come 
of  age.  Look  at  him,  as  he  passes  into  the  presence 
of  the  veteran,  and  reverently  kisses  the  hand  laid 
gently  upon  his.  He  is  slightly  built,  about  five 
feet  eight  inches  in  height,  of  singular  beauty, 
with  features  of  almost  feminine  delicacy.  His 
brown  eyes  are  modest  and  expressive.  His  hair 
is  rich  and  wavy,  and  of  a  lustrous  brown.  His 
face  is  oval,  and  of  an  olive  tone.  His  manners 
are  courtly  and  fascinating.  His  disposition  is 
gentleness  itself.  If  Da  Vinci  was  the  Apollo  of 
the  studio,  I  think  Raphael  must  have  been  the 
Adonis. 

It  is  surprising,  however,  how  little  is  known  of 
Raphael's  life.  Vasari  fills  scores  of  pages  with 
descriptions  of  his  pictures,  but  omits — if  he  ever 

163 


RAPHAEL 

knew  them — the  thousand  details  which  would  be 
interesting  to  us.  Vasari's  opinions  do  not  help 
us  very  much.  But  then  Giorgio  Vasari  was  only 
an  Italian — and  have  we  not  heard  the  opinions 
of  the  wise  men  of  Germany,  and  France,  and 
England  !  Of  the  little  that  is  known  we  gather 
that  Raphael's  childhood  was  passed  at  Urbino, 
where  he  was  born  in  1483.  It  is  said  of  his 
mother,  the  gentle  Magia — as  it  may  be  said  of  so 
many  mothers  whose  sons  have  become  men  of 
genius — that  he  inherited  his  affectionate,  tender, 
warm-hearted  disposition  from  her.  She  died  in 
his  infancy,  and  the  boy  passed  to  the  care  of  a 
step-mother,  a  woman  less  amiable  than  the 
mother  he  had  lost.  In  a  few  more  years  his 
father,  Giovanni  Santi,  who  was  himself  a  painter 
of  repute,  died  also,  and  evil  days  threatened  the 
lad — from  which,  however,  he  was  rescued  by  his 
mother's  brother. 

Then  comes  his  apprenticeship  to  Perugino. 
He  had  been  painted  by  his  father  as  one  of  the 
angels — now  it  became  his  turn  to  paint  the  angels 
himself.  In  his  half-sister,  Elizabetta,  he  found 
a  fitting  model.  There  is  a  beautiful  drawing  of 
her  by  her  brother,  which  suggests  not  only  how 
like  the  brother  and  sister  were  to  each  other,  but 
that  from  Elizabetta  he  drew  his  first  inspiration 
for  the  face  of  the  Madonna. 

At  last  the  infamous  tyranny  of  the  Borgias 

164 


PONTIFICALIS 

came  to  an  end — by  the  tragic  death  of  Alexander 
VI. — and  Raphael  was  summoned  to  Rome  by 
Julius  II.  At  that  time  Rome  was  the  centre  of 
the  world  of  Art,  and  the  Pope  was  the  dispenser 
of  its  highest  patronage.  But  there  were  Popes 
before  the  fifteenth  century.  Are  not  their  names 
registered  in  the  Book  of  the  Divine  Comedy  ? — 
Pontifex  martyrio  coronatus ;  pontifex  sacrosanc- 
tissimus  ;  pontifex  eruditus  ;  pontifex  militaris — • 
femininm—puerilis — hczreticus — corruptissimus — of 
whom  we  find  very  lively  reading  not  only  in 
the  Paradiso  and  Purgatorio,  but  especially  in 
the  Inferno.  For  a  thousand  years  Christendom 
had  resounded  with  Papal  "  Bulls."  Dante  calls 
these  years  the  ten  silent  centuries — because  there 
were  no  poets  to  sing.  If  Dante  called  them 
silent,  we  may  call  them  dark — for  there  were  no 
painters.  Poetry  and  Art  were  alike  dead.  To 
what  do  we  owe  their  revival  ?  The  Renascence 

of  Art  is  coincident  with  the  establishment  of  the 
t 

Inquisition  !  St.  Peter's,  at  Rome,  was  built  with 
money  obtained  through  the  sale  of  Indulgences  ! 
It  is  a  terrible  indictment.  But  then,  it  is  to  be 
remembered  also  that  the  Renascence  of  Art  is 
coincident  with  the  Reformation. 

In  Raphael,  however,  we  have  a  Catholic  painter, 
pure  and  simple,  and  in  his  works  we  see  the  finest 
flower  of  Catholic  Art.  Raphael  was  not  troubled 
with  doubts,  as  was  Michael  Angelo  ;  he  was  not 

165 


RAPHAEL 

an  unbeliever  as  was  Correggio  ;  he  had  not,  like 
Da  Vinci,  chosen  philosophy,  as  an  alternative  to 
religion  ;  nor,  like  Titian,  did  he  live  far  away,  in 
a  city  in  conflict  with  the  Pope,  and  under  the  ban 
of  excommunication.  I  do  not  say  that  Raphael 
was  the  subject  of  any  deep  religious  sentiments, 
or  that  he  held  strong  theological  views,  like  Fra 
Angelico.  But  to  him  the  train  of  St.  Peter  had 
a  very  real  meaning  ;  the  sword  on  which  St.  Paul 
leaned  was  a  very  real  sword  ;  and  the  Madonna 
in  which  Schlegel  thinks  he  sees  a  resemblance  to 
the  Magdalen,  was  more  than  a  beautiful  woman — 
she  was  the  Mother  of  his  God. 

It  is  a  little  singular  that  in  Protestant  England 
Raphael  should  be  represented  almost  exclusively 
by  Catholic  pictures.  The  cartoons,  now  at  South 
Kensington,  were  designs  for  the  decoration  of  the 
Pope's  private  chapel.  The  Madonna  Ansidei,  and 
the  Archangels,  in  our  National  Gallery — the  Holy 
Family  in  the  Bridgewater  collection — the  Cruci- 
fixion, in  the  possession  of  the  Earl  of  Dudley— 
these  are  all  ecclesiastical  subjects.  Moreover,  the 
paintings  most  widely  known  amongst  us,  by 
means  of  copies  or  engravings,  are  of  the  same 
character — the  Transfiguration,  the  Madonna  della 
Sedia,  the  Madonna  di  San  Sisto.  And  yet  these 
religious  pictures  represent  only  one  phase  of 
Raphael's  work.  More  than  half  his  life  was  given 

1 66 


PARNASSUS 

to  the  painting  of  mythological  and  classic  designs 
—of  which  we  do  not  possess  a  single  example. 
The  chambers  of  the  Vatican  are  rich  with  frescoes 
—allegories  of  Poetry,  Theology,  Philosophy,  Juris- 
prudence, Astronomy — with  legends  of  Parnassus, 
of  Apollo,  of  Cupid  and  Psyche,  of  Pan,  of  Galatea 
— of  everything  the  imagination  can  conjure  into 
beauty  and  grace. 

Let  us  look  for  a  moment  at  the  painting  of 
Parnassus.  Apollo  is  seated  beneath  the  laurels 
which  overshadow  the  streams  of  Helicon.  There 
are  the  Muses — see — they  are  listening.  There  is 
the  fountain  which  sprang  from  the  ground  when 
struck  by  the  feet  of  Pegasus.  There  is  the  blind 
poet — the  old  schoolmaster — the  strolling  bard — 
the  father  of  poetry — for  whom  seven  cities  dis- 
puted, as  Florence  and  Rome  quarrelled  over 
Michael  Angelo.  Homer  is  laurel-crowned,  his 
head  is  raised,  his  hand  outstretched,  as  though 
he  were  singing  his  immortal  verse  to  the  music 
of  Apollo's  lyre.  And  side  by  side  with  Homer  is 
Pindar,  the  prince  of  the  lyricists  of  Greece,  and 
Virgil,  the  prince  of  the  Latin  poets.  They,  too, 
are  listening — and  with  them  Dante.  Is  he  not 
also  a  prince  in  Apollo's  kingdom  ? 

Now  turn  to  another  of  these  frescoes.  In  a 
magnificent  proscenium  of  classic  architecture,  are 
assembled  the  philosophers  of  ancient  Greece. 
They  are  grouped  in  accordance  with  the  historical 


RAPHAEL 

development  of  the  Schools.  There  is  Pythagoras, 
with  his  disciples.  There  is  Socrates,  with  the 
young  Alcibiades.  There  are  Plato,  and  Aristotle. 
And  still,  group  after  group,  come  the  Stoics,  the 
Epicureans,  the  Cynics — each  figure  telling  its  own 
story  of  the  evolution  of  philosophy — Euclid  the 
geometrician,  Ptolemy  the  astronomer,  Zoroaster 
the  magician.  I  have  not  space  even  to  name  the 
"  fifty  of  the  greatest  of  Earth's  children  " — every 
one  of  whom  must  have  been  carefully  studied  by 
the  painter.  "  The  School  of  Athens  "  is  indeed  an 
achievement  which  may  be  compared  with  the 
"  Cenacolo  "  of  Milan,  and  the  "  Dies  Ira  "  of  the 
Sistine.  It  places  Raphael  in  scholarship  on  a 
level  with  Da  Vinci,  and  in  imagination  on  a  level 
with  Michael  Angelo.  I  said  that  the  picture  con- 
tained fifty  of  the  greatest  of  Earth's  children. 
Look  again.  There  is  still  another.  Who  is  that 
young  man— beautiful  to  look  upon?— to  whom  the 
astronomer  and  the  magician  turn.  It  is  Raphael 
himself.  And  the  globes  they  carry — terrestrial 
and  celestial — are  symbols  of  his  domain.  For  in 
Art  he  was  lord  alike  of  Earth  and  Heaven. 

Of  Raphael's  life  at  the  Papal  Court  very  little 
is  recorded.  That  he  lived  as  a  Prince,  in  his  own 
house  near  the  Vatican  ;  that  he  loved  Margarita, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Tiber  ;  that  he  was  true 
to  her,  and  she  to  him  ;  that  there  is  no  record  of 

1 68 


MARGARITA 

their  marriage  ;  that  he  steadily  refused  to  make 
any  other  alliance  ;  that  when  he  died  he  left  his 
possessions  to  her — this  is  about  all  that  Vasari 
tells  us.  It  should  be  remembered,  however,  that 
the  Court  of  the  Vatican,  even  though  the  worst 
corruptions  of  the  Borgias  had  been  swept  away, 
was  not  quite  the  place  for  a  painter  and  his  young 
wife.  There  had  indeed  been  great  reforms.  The 
new  Pope  was  carrying  out  a  scheme  for  enlarging 
the  Vatican  into  a  Pontifical  city,  to  be  self-con- 
tained for  all  the  officers  and  dignitaries  of  the 
Church.  He  marked  his  displeasure  of  the  past 
by  refusing  even  to  live  in  the  rooms  which  had 
been  desecrated  by  the  licentious  Court  of  his 
predecessor.  Nevertheless,  celibacy  was  the  order 
of  the  day,  for  dignitaries  and  servitors  alike.  Why 
should  Raphael  be  exempt  ?  Julius  and  Leo 
sought  for  artists,  to  work — not  young  men  and 
women  to  play.  Margarita  was  not  an  artist,  but 
a  very  pretty  woman.  It  could  very  well  have 
been  understood  that  women  were  out  of  place  in 
the  household  of  the  Pope  ;  and  that  the  beautiful 
Margarita  had  better  keep  at  home — or  visit  her 
husband  at  his  work  upon  the  sacred  pictures  only 
when  he  required  a  model  for  an  angel — without 
being  recognised  as  Signora  Sanzi.  I  am  not 
claiming  for  Raphael  or  for  Margarita  that  they 
were  more  holy  than  His  Holiness  ;  but  I  am 
content  to  believe  no  evil  of  them  that  cannot  be 

169 


RAPHAEL 

proved.  Surely,  an  unrecognised  marriage  is  not 
so  strange  a  thing  as  to  be  incredible  when  it  is 
attested  by  mutual  fidelity. 

The  end  came  suddenly.  Raphael  had  finished 
his  Madonna  di  San  Sisto  ;  the  painting  of  the 
Transfiguration  was  still  upon  his  easel  when  he 
was  summoned  to  the  presence  of  Leo — who 
desired  to  consult  him  as  to  some  alterations  in 
St.  Peter's.  The  painter  laid  down  his  palette 
and  hastened  to  the  Vatican — where  he  arrived 
overheated  and  fatigued.  There,  in  the  open 
corridors  he  had  adorned,  he  was  taken  with  a 
chill,  and  returned  to  his  house — only  to  die.  The 
Pope,  who  was  his  true  friend,  was  greatly  con- 
cerned at  his  illness,  and  waited  from  day  to  day 
for  tidings  of  his  favourite  painter.  Within  a 
fortnight,  on  the  eve  of  Good  Friday,  a  strange 
thing  happened.  Leo  was  seated  in  a  chamber  of 
the  Vatican,  rich  with  the  designs  of  Raphael. 
Suddenly,  the  walls  of  the  chamber  collapsed,  and 
.  the  Pope  fled  from  the  ruins.  As  he  escaped  he 
was  met  by  a  messenger.  Raphael  was  dead. 

Raphael  died,  as  did  Shakespeare,  on  his  own 
birthday.  He  was  buried  in  the  Pantheon,  and 
it  is  said  that  all  Rome  crowded  to  the  funeral. 
His  scarcely  finished  painting  of  the  Transfigura- 
tion— its  colours  still  wet — was  carried  in  proces- 
sion—as Cimabue's  Madonna  had  been  carried 

170 


ADDIO  RAFFAELLO 

in  Florence,  and  hung  over  the  altar.  Between 
the  dirges  of  the  Miserere  might  be  heard  the  weep- 
ing of  the  people — for  Raphael  was  as  much  loved 
as  he  was  admired.  Listen  now  to  a  few  echoes  of 
voices  which  sang  his  praise,  or  recorded  his  virtues 
or  lamented  his  untimely  death.  A  group  of 
mourners  stand  round  his  grave.  There  is  the 
famous  scholar,  Cardinal  Bembo,  the  Pope's  Sec- 
retary ;  there  are  Count  Baldassare,  and  Aquila, 
old  friends  of  Raphael,  and  Giulio  Romano  his 
favourite  disciple,  and  Ariosto  the  poet,  and  Va- 
sari  the  recorder.  If  Angelo  is  not  with  them  it 
is  only  because  he  is  far  away  at  Carrara  and 
there  has  not  been  time  for  him  to  come. 

BALL  AQUILA.     You  knew  him  as  a  child  ? 

DONNA  GIOVANNA.  I  knew  him  as  a  child  in 
his  mother's  arms.  She  was  as  gentle,  and  as 
beautiful,  as  her  boy.  But  she  died  young. 

COUNT  BALDASSARE.     And  then  ? 

DONNA  GIOVANNA.  Then  his  father  painted 
him  as  an  angel  in  our  little  chapel  at  Cagli.  But 
the  man  married  again — and  died — and  the  child 
was  left  to  the  care  of  a  woman — matrigna — and  a 
priest,  who  did  not  care  for  him. 

ARIOSTO.     Well,  well — he  soon  got  over  that. 
-He  lived  as  a  prince. 

GIULIO  ROMANO.     Our  Raffaello  was  a  prince. 

GIORGIO  VASARI.     In  the  world  of  Art. 

171 


RAPHAEL 

CARDINAL  BEMBO.  And  he  might  have  been 
a  Prince  of  the  Church — for  His  Holiness  named 
him  for  the  "  red  hat." 

[The  figure  of  a  woman  is  seen  lying 
prostrate  before  the  altar  with  hands 
clasped  in  prayer.] 

DONNA  GIOVANNA.     It  is  Margarita. 

CARDINAL  DE  MEDICI.  And  he  might  have 
married  a  princess— but  for  that  little  Margarita 
of  his.  Nothing  would  induce  him  to  give  her  up. 

CARDINAL  BEMBO.  Hei,  mihi !  What  can  you 
do  with  a  man  like  that  ? 

GIULIO  ROMANO.     You  can  worship  him. 

GIORGIO  VASARI.  He  was  indeed  god-like! 
Heaven  accumulated  upon  his  head  all  its  trea- 
sures. Evil  could  not  exist  in  his  presence  any 
more  than  darkness  at  the  rising  of  the  sun.  His 
gracious  nature  subdued  both  man  and  beast- 
even  the  dumb  creatures  following  his  footsteps 
with  mysterious  affection.  I  will  write  it  all  in 
my  book. 

The  work  of  Raphael  is  the  manifestation  of  the 
fine  quality  in  Art,  for  which  I  know  no  better 
definition  than  the  word  "balance."  He  stood  be- 
tween two  contending  influences — the  revival  of 
Classic  scholasticism,  and  the  impulsive  turning 
to  Nature  as  the  supreme  Mistress.  Of  course 
Nature  is  supreme,  in  all  schools — but  what  is 

172 


ONE  OF  FIVE 

Nature  ?  Of  course  Classic  Art  is  authoritative — 
but  what  is  Classic  Art  ?  The  dangers  on  either 
side  are — that  in  following  the  antique  artists  may 
lose  touch  with  Nature — in  following  Nature  they 
may  lose  the  crown  and  glory  of  Art — the  Ideal. 
Raphael  was  the  great  reconciler — the  complete 
artist. 

Raphael  was  one  of  five.  If  Da  Vinci  knew 
more — Raphael  knew  enough.  If  Titian's  colour 
is  more  telling — Raphael  tells  enough.  If  Michael 
Angelo  was  more  daring — Raphael  was  not  defi- 
cient in  courage.  If  Correggio  painted  the  pretti- 
est of  women — Raphael  painted  the  most  beauti- 
ful. Tintoretto  thought  that  if  Titian  had  de- 
signed like  Angelo,  and  Angelo  had  coloured  like 
Titian,  the  world  would  have  seen  a  perfect 
painter.  But  that  is  the  same  as  saying  that  if 
the  stars  of  a  constellation  had  been  all  rolled 
together  in  one  you  would  have  had  a  bigger  star. 
Yes — but  you  would  have  lost  the  glory  of  the 
heavens. 


173 


CORREGGIO 


CORREGGIO.  Signora  /  Signora  !  I  cannot  let 
you  go.  I  must  paint  you. 

LA  SIGNORA.  Why  do  you  desire  to  paint  me — 
Messer  Allegri? 

CORREGGIO.  Because,  Signora — because  yon 
are  so  beautiful — and  I  am  tired  of  painting 
saints. 


Mansell 


PLATE  XXX.       FROM  A  PAINTING  IN 
THE  CATHEDRAL,  PARMA 


CORREGGIO 


F  I  were  writing  a 
novel  in  which  An- 
tonio Allegri — da 
Correggio— figured 
as  the  chief  char- 
acter, I  would  cer- 
tainly begin  with 
the  dialogue  that 
faces  his  portrait 
at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  chap- 
ter. It  says  nothing  about  the  Angel — Correggio' s 
face,  indeed,  does  not  suggest  that  sort  of  thing. 
But  we  can  afford  to  wait.  It  is  not  necessary  for 
a  messenger  to  have  a  pretty  face.  The  face  of 
Hermes — who  was  the  messenger  of  the  gods — 
must  have  worn  a  more  comical  aspect  even  than 

177 

I3-U389) 


CORREGGIO 

that  of  Correggio,  for  it  was  painted  half  black 
and  half  white,  to  indicate  that  he  talked  with 
gods  and  men.  Now  that  is  precisely  what  Cor- 
reggio  did.  Whether  La  Signora  should  accede  to 
his  request  by  delaying  her  departure,  would  be 
determined  as  the  story  developed.  But  that  the 
first  and  last  desire  of  the  painter  was  to  paint 
things  beautiful — and  that  this  desire  was  the  con- 
trolling influence  which  directed  his  Art — there 
should  be  no  doubt.  The  conversation  might  in- 
deed be  carried  a  little  further.  "  Let  Raphael/' 
he  might  say  —  "Let  Raphael  paint  angels  in 
heaven,  and  Michael  Angelo  devils  in  hell ;  as 
for  me,  I  am  content  to  paint  women. "  "  Is  it 
not  true  then,  Messer  Allegri,  that  you  paint  angels 
sometimes  ?  "  "  Ah,  yes  Signora — but  then,  my 
women  are  angels." 

It  is  not  a  novel,  however,  that  I  am  writing. 
It  is  only  a  drama  passing  before  my  eyes — a 
drama  in  five  acts — the  drama  of  the  Renascence 
of  Art.  Moreover,  there  are  five  great  actors  in 
the  play,  and  for  a  little  while  we  see  them  all  on 
the  stage  together.  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael 
are  painting  in  the  Sistine  Chapel,  and  the  Stanze 
of  the  Vatican.  Da  Vinci  is  visiting  Rome  for  the 
first  time,  where  he  interests  the  Pope  more  as  an 
alchemist  than  as  a  painter.  Titian  has  taken  the 
place  of  the  Bellini  as  head  of  the  Venetian  School, 


ENGLAND  AND  THE  RENASCENCE 

and  Correggio  has  painted  his  first  masterpiece — 
the  Madonna  of  St.  Francis — for  the  altar  of  a 
church  in  the  town  where  he  was  born,  and  from 
which  he  takes  his  name.  Let  us  now  see  a  little 
more  of  the  dramatis  persona  with  whom  these 
five  chief  actors  played  their  several  parts. 

But  there  are  other  names  and  dates,  of  pro- 
found interest  to  us,  that  we  should  do  well  to 
consider.  We,  as  Englishmen,  are  now  of  the 
number  of  the  nations  which  unite  to  render  the 
tribute  of  honour  to  these  men — but  it  was  not 
always  so.  There  are  some  historical  co-incidences 
which  indicate  our  position  in  relation  to  the 
Renascence  of  Art.  For  instance,  Da  Vinci  and 
Savonarola  were  born  in  the  same  year — 1542. 
That  interests  us  a  little  now,  as  Protestants — but 
we  began  our  Wars  of  the  Roses  just  at  that  time, 
and  did  not  trouble  ourselves  much  about  the 
condition  of  the  Fine  Arts  in  Italy.  By  the  time 
Lancaster  and  York  had  settled  their  differences 
we  were  busy  with  Caxton  and  his  printing-press. 
One  of  the  first  books  that  came  from  Westminster 
Abbey,  "  The  Game  and  Playe  of  the  Chesse,"  was 
just  in  time  to  be  given  as  a  school  prize  to  little 
Michael  Angelo  !  The  pieces  were  being  set,  how- 
ever, for  a  greater  game  than  chess — a  game  at 
which  nations  should  play — and  for  great  stakes 
— to  win  or  to  lose.  In  1483  Raphael  was  born — 

179 


CORREGGIO 

and  Luther.  If  Raphael  was  not  on  our  side, 
Luther  was — and  we  won.  Raphael  won  too,  if 
we  measure  by  the  splendour  of  his  achievements. 
But  while  the  Renascence  of  Art  has  perished,  the 
Reformation  has  only  just  begun. 

Had  England  then  no  part  in  the  great  revival 
of  the  Arts  which  made  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth 
centuries  so  glorious  ?  When  Raphael  died— in 
1520— our  Henry  was  engaged  with  the  French 
King  on  the  "  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold."  If  the 
two  Kings  chatted  together,  Francis  may  have 
told  Henry  of  the  Italian  Leonardo,  to  whom  he 
had  given  Royal  honours  in  the  mortuary  chapel 
at  Amboise — and  Henry  may  have  confided  to 
Francis  that  a  young  Dutchman,  of  the  name  of 
Holbein,  was  coming  over  to  London  to  paint  his 
portrait,  and  that  he,  Henry,  had  a  great  scheme 
for  establishing  a  School  of  Art  in  England  for  the 
weaving  of  more  cloth  of  gold.  It  is  but  a  brief 
record  that  history  gives  of  these  things,  but  it 
serves  its  purpose  in  reminding  us  how  nations, 
as  well  as  Schools  of  Art,  are  made.  Henry's 
scheme  did  not  lead  to  much — at  the  time  ;  but 
it  bore  fruit  afterwards.  We  owe  to  it  the  pos- 
session of  the  cartoons  of  Raphael.  They  were 
designed  by  Raphael  for  the  decoration  of  the 
Sistine  Chapel,  and  had  been  worked  in  tapestry 
at  Arras.  Raphael  had  lived  to  see  them  in  their 

1 80 


THE  TWO  CROWNS 

beauty.  But  ah !  what  vicissitudes  they  have 
passed  through.  Within  a  few  years  of  Raphael's 
death,  Rome  was  pillaged,  and  the  tapestries  car- 
ried as  spoils  of  war  to  France.  They  were  sold 
in  the  market  for  the  value  of  the  gold  threads 
with  which  they  were  wrought.  Such  tapestries 
have  only  to  be  burnt  up — like  small  republics 
planted  on  too  auriferous  a  soil — and  the  little 
yellow  heap  left  in  the  crucible  will  show  how 
precious  they  are  !  But  Raphael's  tapestries  were 
redeemed,  and  hang  in  the  Vatican  to-day. 

In  the  meantime  the  cartoons,  the  actual  work 
of  Raphael's  hand,  have  come  to  us.  They  had 
lain  forgotten  in  the  workshops  of  Arras  for  a 
century,  but  at  last,  acting  on  the  wise  advice  of 
Rubens,  Charles  I.  bought  them  for  his  palace  at 
Whitehall.  Better  still,  a  little  later  Oliver  Crom- 
well bought  them  for  the  nation. 

The  record  therefore  even  in  Art  is  not  altogether 
against  us.  But  there  is  still  another  curious  coin- 
cidence worth  noting.  In  the  year  1534,  in  which 
the  last  of  the  five  great  painters  of  the  Renascence 
— Correggio — died,  the  Papal  Authority  was  finally 
abolished  in  England.  Perhaps  it  is  too  much  to 
expect  a  people  to  win  the  Crown  of  Liberty — and 
the  Crown  of  Art  at  the  same  time. 

I  will  now  ask  the  printer  to  leave  me,  over  leaf, 
a  blank  page,  on  which  I  may,  as  I  write,  sketch 

181 


CORREGGIO 

out  in  the  form  of  a  diagram,  the  position  in  which 
each  painter  stands  in  relation  to  the  Renascence, 
and  the  position  of  the  Renascence  in  relation  to 
the  history  of  Art.  See,  I  divide  the  sheet  of  paper 
into  five  columns  representing  the  thirteenth, 
fourteenth,  fifteenth,  sixteenth,  and  seventeenth 
centuries.  Then  I  draw  horizontal  lines  with  my 
pen — measured,  each  according  to  the  length  of 
the  painter's  life,  and  placed  in  position  according 
to  the  date  of  his  birth.  Above  the  line  I  write 
the  painter's  name.  How  they  flock  together, 
these  painters  !  like  birds  migrating  to  the  happy 
land  where  the  sun  shines.  The  diagram  shows  at 
a  glance,  more  clearly  than  can  be  attained  through 
any  catalogue  of  dates  and  names,  the  rise  and 
fall  of  the  great  Schools  of  which  the  Renascence 
is  the  centre. 

But  if  we  turn  once  more  to  the  diagram  we  shall 
see  a  few  names  beside  those  of  the  painters,and  a 
little  procession  of  spires,  and  domes,  and  arches — 
pointed  and  round.  The  names  are  of  the  poets 
who  were  the  contemporaries  of  the  painters  ;  the 
outlines  are  reminiscences  of  the  cathedrals  which 
were  built  during  their  lives.  However  much  or 
little  the  Fine  Arts  may  be  affected  by  civil  or 
religious  strife,  it  is  certain  that  the  effect  of  Poetry 
and  Architecture  upon  Painting  is  direct  and  last- 
ing. The  influence  of  Dante  on  Giotto  can  scarcely 

182 


FROM  ST.  PETER'S  TO  ST.  PAUL'S 


183 


CORREGGIO 

be  over-estimated.  Chaucer  and  the  Chapel  of  St. 
George's  at  Windsor — Shakespeare  and  the  land- 
scape painters  of  the  seventeenth  century — Milton 
and  Claude — these  are  not  chance  associations  of 
men  thrown  together  by  accident.  The  lives  of 
Margaritone,  Cimabue,  Duccio,  Giotto,  Orcagna, 
Simon  Memmi,  Fra  Angelico — cover  the  period  of 
the  building  of  the  Duomo  of  Florence.  The 
Minnesingers,  and  Meistersingers  of  Germany  were 
the  companions  of  the  Architects,  who  created 
Nuremberg.  Chaucer  saw  the  unfolding  of  the 
Rose  in  Lincoln  Cathedral  and  Westminster  Ab- 
bey. It  is  in  each  case  the  same  force  moving— 
but  finding  different  forms  of  expression.  For  the 
army  of  the  painters  of  the  Renascence  were  to 
a  man  engaged  in  the  building  or  decoration  of 
cathedral  churches. 

And  what  an  army  !  There  were  the  Bellini, 
in  whose  school  Titian  learned  the  first  rudiments 
of  his  Art.  There  was  Mantegna,  of  Padua,  who 
inspired  Correggio.  There  was  Perugino,  the 
master  of  Raphael.  There  was  Julio  Romano, 
Raphael's  favourite  disciple.  There  was  Ghirl- 
andaio,  the  master  of  Michael  Angelo.  There  was 
Andrea  Verrocchio,  the  master  of  Da  Vinci. 
Master  and  pupil,  pupil  and  master,  the  roll-call 
still  goes  on ;  for  the  mantle  of  Leonardo  fell  on 
Luini — the  painter  of  that  wonderful  fresco  in  the 

184 


THE  ROLL-CALL 

Church  of  the  Angels  at  Lugano.  Then  there  were 
Andrea  del  Sarto — the  painter  without  a  fault ; 
and  Luca  Signorelli,  whose  strong  work  influenced 
even  Michael  Angelo  ;  Lorenzo  di  Credi — distin- 
guished both  as  a  painter  and  as  a  sculptor  ;  Lippi 
the  younger — who  completed  the  frescoes  which 
Masaccio  had  left  unfinished ;  Piero  di  Cosimo — 
eccentric,  but  full  of  genius  ;  Squarcione — who 
died  before  the  battle  commenced,  but  inspired 
others  with  courage  ;  Vivarini — one  of  the  earliest 
of  the  Venetians  to  see  the  splendour  of  colour  ; 
Carpaccio — counted  second  only  to  the  Bellini ; 
Cima — who,  for  his  mastery  of  drawing  and  com- 
position has  been  called  the  Masaccio  of  Venice  ; 
Giorgione — who,  had  he  lived,  might  have  been 
the  rival  of  Titian.  To  these  must  be  added  at 
least  two  stars  of  the  first  magnitude — Paolo 
Veronese,  and  Tintoretto.  See — how  the  roll-call 
lengthens  under  my  pen  ;  yet  it  contains  only 
the  names  of  captains  of  the  host,  and  is  by  no 
means  complete.  It  suffices,  however,  to  show 
that  if  our  five  great  painters  form  a  constellation, 
it  is  a  constellation  set  in  a  heaven  already  full  of 
stars. 

What  was  the  vital  force  which  held  these  men 
together  ?  What  were  the  differences  which  sepa- 
rated them  into  schools  ?  What  were  the  prin- 
ciples of  Art  common  to  them  all — which  we  may 
expect  to  find  exemplified  in  all  their  works  ? 

185 


CORREGGIO 

What  lies  at  the  root  of  the  vehement  fault-find- 
ing and  hysterical  adulation  which  disfigures  the 
writings  of  so  many  critics,  who  on  other  matters 
write  sanely  enough  ?  Is  it  possible  to  see  and 
appreciate  the  glory  of  each  without  being  blind 
to  the  glory  of  the  others  ? 

Five  questions — which  can  be  answered  only 
through  a  complete  study  of  the  five  great  painters. 
It  is  not  enough  to  know  that  Da  Vinci  was  a 
scholar  ;  that  Titian  was  a  colourist ;  that  Angelo 
was  a  dreamer  ;  that  Raphael  was  an  "  all  round  " 
artist.  We  have  yet  to  see  what  it  was  that 
differentiated  Correggio  from  the  four,  and  yet 
placed  him  on  an  equality  with  each. 

Now,  four  of  our  five  questions  are  already 
answered.  Leonardo  da  Vinci  has  taught  us  that 
the  vital  force  which  held  all  these  Schools  together 
was  the  recognition  of  our  common  humanity  as 
the  objective  of  Art.  From  the  Christ  seated  in 
the  midst,  to  the  traitor  clutching  the  purse,  he 
covers  with  his  knowledge  all  that  the  classic,  and 
medieval,  and  modern  schools  had  attempted. 
Michael  Angelo  teaches  us  quite  a  different  lesson, 
viz.,  that  the  differences  which  divide  the  Schools 
are  the  differences  of  the  sentiments  they  seek  to 
express.  His  Christ  on  the  Throne  of  Judgment, 
and  his  Child-Christ  caressed  by  Mary  and  Joseph, 
are  based  on  classic  forms  ;  but  in  spirit  they  are 

1 86 


HIS  SPECIAL  GIFT 

as  far  apart  from  the  Greek  as  Christianity  is 
distinct  from  Paganism.  From  Titian  we  learn 
the  one  universal  principle  in  Art — that  the  highest 
cannot  be  attained  without  sacrifice — that  the 
painter  cannot  make  the  best  of  two  worlds — that 
if  saints  and  angels  are  to  be  good  flesh  and  blood, 
they  cannot  at  the  same  time  be  celestial  ether. 
Raphael  has  discovered  to  us — through  his  critics 
and  admirers — that  the  restraint  of  perfect  balance 
is,  to  minds  which  seek  only  a  stimulant  in  Art, 
the  one  intolerable  offence  which  can  never  be 
forgiven. 

And  Correggio.  What  do  we  learn  from  Cor- 
reggio  ?  In  what  relation  does  he  stand  to  Michael 
Angelo  and  the  rest  ?  The  battle  of  the  Renas- 
cence had  been  fought ;  a  battle  against  prejudice, 
reaching  almost  to  superstition.  And  the  masters 
had  quarrelled  over  it.  Michael  Angelo,  called 
Perugino  "  a  dunce  ";  and  Perugino  sued  Michael 
Angelo  in  the  courts  for  libel.  It  is  not  known  how 
that  suit  ended  ;  but  the  victory  of  the  new  move- 
ment was  not  doubtful.  The  expression  of  passion 
became  established,  not  only  as  legitimate,  but  as 
one  of  the  highest  achievements  of  Art. 

The  victory  then  had  been  won  before  Correggio 
was  called  to  arms.  He  did  not  come  to  do  again 
what  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael,  and  Da  Vinci, 
and  Titian  had  done.  He  came  to  give  to  their 
work  the  crown  of  beauty.  Michael  Angelo  had 

187 


CORREGGIO 

shown  that  Art  could  express  strength  and  pas- 
sion without  being  brutal — Correggio  showed  that 
it  could  also  express  sweetness  and  grace  without 
being  weak. 

The  story  of  Correggio's  life  is  quickly  told. 
Antonio  Allegri — for  that  was  his  real  name — was 
born  in  1494,  at  Correggio,  a  small  town  near 
Parma.  He  was  of  good  parentage  ;  and,  being 
intended  for  one  of  the  learned  professions,  was 
made  to  follow  the  usual  course  of  study  in  rhetoric 
and  poetry.  At  a  very  early  age,  however,  he  was 
brought  under  the  attractions  of  Art.  He  learned 
its  rudiments  in  the  studio  of  Lorenzo — his  father's 
brother — and  its  fascinations  proved  too  strong  to 
be  resisted.  The  boy  was  allowed  to  pursue  the 
bent  of  his  genius. 

But  Correggio — for  I  will  not  take  from  him  the 
name  by  which  he  has  been  known  for  four  hundred 
years — Correggio  never  lost  touch  with  the  intel- 
lectual forces  which  had  surrounded  him  in  early 
life.  An  Academy,  or  Literary  Society,  had  been 
founded  in  the  little  town  ;  and  was  visited  by 
professors  from  Bologna — just  as  in  England  many 
a  local  Institution  is  visited  by  men  distinguished 
in  science  or  letters.  The  friendships  Correggio 
thus  formed  in  his  study  of  philosophy  remained 
unbroken  to  the  last. 

But  while  Correggio  was  still  a  lad,  the  scourge 

1 88 


Hanfstaengl 


PLATE    XXXI.       HOLY    FAMILY.       CORREGCIO 

FROM  THE  NATIONAL    GALLERY 


MASTER  MANTEGNA 

of  the  Middle  Ages  fell  on  the  little  town — as  it 
fell  again  and  again  on  the  Rome  of  Raphael,  and 
the  Venice  of  Titian.  The  family  of  the  Allegri 
were  driven  out  by  the  plague.  They  found  refuge 
in  Mantua — and  there,  when  the  plague  was 
stayed,  and  they  returned  to  their  home,  the  young 
painter  remained,  given  wholly  to  the  study  of 
Art.  And  this  was  the  turning  point  in  his  life. 
Mantua  was  a  great  centre  for  the  Fine  Arts — 
containing  many  noble  galleries  of  paintings  and 
sculpture.  It  was  there  that  Correggio  received 
his  first  and  deepest  impressions.  The  Master  of 
the  school  was  Mantegna — a  venerable  senior, 
older  than  Titian,  older  than  Michael  Angelo,  older 
even  than  Da  Vinci.  The  Duke  of  Mantua  had 
brought  him  from  Padua,  as  his  friend,  more  than 
forty  years  before  the  young  Correggio  came  under 
his  influence.  Mantegna  had  time  to  assimilate 
the  excellencies  of  many  schools,  and  Correggio 
duly  worshipped  at  his  shrine. 

But  time  moved  quickly  with  the  lad.  At  the 
age  of  twenty  he  was  himself  amongst  the  Mas- 
ters— painting  his  first  great  altar-piece,  for  his 
native  town — the  famous  "  Madonna  of  St.  Fran- 
cis/' now  in  the  Dresden  Gallery.  The  Madonna 
is  enthroned  in  a  glory  of  light,  with  the  Holy  In- 
fant upon  her  knees.  It  is  the  light  of  heaven — 
for  as  it  melts  into  the  twilight  of  our  vision  it 
takes  the  form  of  a  company  of  angels,  bending 

189 


CORREGGIO 

over  her  to  gaze  upon  the  Divine  Child.  On  her 
right,  at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  are,  St.  Francis 
adoring,  and  St.  Anthony  of  Padua.  On  her  left, 
John  the  Baptist,  and  St.  Catherine  with  the 
sword.  The  wheel  on  which  she  was  broken  lies 
at  her  feet — for  she  has  triumphed,  and  bears  the 
victor's  palm. 

It  is  thought  that  in  this  picture  may  be  traced 
the  various  influences  which  had  controlled  Cor- 
reggio  in  his  early  studies.  Some  perceive  in  it  a 
reflexion  of  Mantegna  ;  others,  of  Da  Vinci.  That, 
however,  is  only  the  process  of  evolution  in  Art, 
as  it  is  also  in  Nature.  Not  until  the  petals  are 
unfolded  to  the  light  can  you  discern  the  full  glory 
of  the  flower.  White  and  red  roses  begin  by  being 
very  much  alike. 

And  yet  it  is  worth  noting,  that  the  subject  of 
his  first  picture,  as  well  as  of  his  last — it  would 
scarcely  be  an  exaggeration  to  say  the  subject  of 
almost  every  picture  he  ever  painted — was  a 
woman.  There  is  one  indeed — the  picture  by 
which  he  is  best  known  in  England — the  "  Ecce 
Homo  "  in  our  National  Gallery,  which  shows  that 
if  his  range  of  vision  was  limited  it  was  limited  by 
his  own  choice — not  by  any  deficiency  of  virile 
strength  to  express  passion  at  its  highest  and  best. 
But  the  exceptions  seem  to  emphasise  the  rule. 
In  Mr.  Compton  Heaton's  admirable  "  Life  of 

190 


PLATE    XXXII.       THE   CHRIST    OF    CORREGGIO 


FROM  THE  "  ECCE  HOMO  "  IN 
THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY 


CORREGGIO'S  CHOICE 

Correggio  "  will  be  found  a  catena  of  his  principal 
works.  His  chief  frescoes  are  the  "  Assumption  of 
the  Virgin/'  in  the  Cathedral  of  Parma ;  "  Diana 
returning  from  the  Chase/'  in  the  Convent  of  San 
Paolo  ;  "  The  Coronation  of  the  Virgin/'  in  the 
Choir  of  San  Giovanni ;  the  "  Madonna  della 
Scala/'  painted  over  the  Porta  Romana  ;  and  the 
"Annunciation,"  in  the  Church  of  the  Annunziata. 
But  is  there  not  one  more  ?  Yes — there  is  "  The 
Ascension  of  Christ,"  with  the  twelve  Apostles, 
four  Evangelists,  and  the  four  Fathers  of  the 
Church  !  What  room  is  there  for  women  here  ? 
Look  again,  and  you  will  see  that  the  picture  is 
made  beautiful  for  ever  by  the  introduction  of  a 
frieze  of  Amoretti  dancing  round  the  sacred  dome. 
The  same  thing  is  observable  of  his  easel  pictures. 
Of  twenty-seven  which  are  indisputably  from  his 
hand  no  fewer  than  fifteen  are  Madonnas,  or 
Magdalens,  and  seven  are  goddesses  or  nymphs  ; 
while  three  only  are  of  general  subjects  ;  and  two 
are  of  Christ. 

And  the  reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  Correggio 
was  an  artist — pure  and  simple  ;  and  he  painted 
that  which  was  dear  to  his  eyes.  Correggio  had 
no  laboratory  attached  to  his  studio  ;  he  had  no 
world  of  science  or  physics  to  conquer  ;  the  learn- 
ing which  fascinated  Da  Vinci  did  not  fascinate 
him.  Correggio  was  not  a  dreamer  like  Michael 
Angelo  ;  he  knew  nothing  of  heaven  or  hell  save 

191 


CORREGGIO 

what  the  priests  told  him  ;  he  did  not  sigh  for  the 
regeneration  of  the  age.  Correggio  did  not  see  the 
jewellery  of  light  and  colour  as  Titian  did — nor 
had  he  the  complete  vision  of  Raphael.  But  he 
did  see  women,  and  discovered  that  they  look 
very  beautiful — in  pictures.  In  painting  them 
he  won  the  suffrages  of  the  majority  of  our  race. 
For  there  are  more  women  in  the  world  than  men, 
and  they  know  that  they  are  beautiful,  and  that 
Correggio  painted  them — if  not  always  as  saints, 
at  least  as  goddesses.  In  doing  this  Correggio 
won  also  the  suffrages  of  the  minority. 

How  simple  it  all  seems.  How  strange — that 
since  the  Greeks  carved  the  statues  of  Aphrodite 
and  Psyche,  and  Diana,  and  Juno,  it  should  never 
have  occurred  to  the  artist  that  it  was  sufficient 
to  be  a  woman,  without  being  a  saint— or  a  sinner. 
Correggio,  during  his  early  manhood,  was  greatly 
influenced  by  the  general  revolt  against  the  super- 
stitions of  the  Middle  Ages.  But  there  is  no  record 
of  his  having  himself  taken  part  in  the  spiritual 
conflict.  Between  the  passionate  appeals  of 
Savonarola,  of  which  he  must  have  heard  at  least 
the  echoes,  but  which  did  not  move  him — and  the 
renewed  Sale  of  Indulgences,  for  which  he  had 
only  contempt,  he  seems  to  have  found  refuge — 
as  when  a  child  he  had  found  refuge  from  the 
plague  in  a  neighbouring  city — in  a  kind  of  semi- 

192 


VASARI  ON  HEAVEN 

paganism.  He  attempted  to  escape  from  what  he 
felt  to  be  the  trammels  of  Sacred  Art,  into  the 
freedom  of  the  realms  of  Mythology. 

It  is  not  to  be  inferred,  however,  from  this  that 
Allegri  abandoned  himself  to  the  licentious  habits 
of  the  age.  The  testimony  of  his  contemporaries 
is  quite  irreconcilable  with  such  a  supposition. 
There  is  scarcely  a  writer  who  does  not  indicate  by 
some  chance  expression  of  affection  the  sweetness 
of  his  disposition  and  the  purity  of  his  life.  One 
poet — Veronica  Gambara,  of  Parma— writing  to 
a  friend,  Beatrice  D'Este,  of  Mantua,  calls  him 
"Our  Antonio."  Another  exclaims,  "Ah,  Correggio, 
di  cor  mio."  Even  Vasari,  who  sees  everything  as 
a  churchman,  and  considers  it  his  duty  to  allocate 
to  each  painter  his  position,  not  only  in  this  world, 
but  in  the  next — even  Vasari  turns  a  blind  eye  on 
Correggio' s  lapse  from  the  orthodox  faith.  He  tells 
us  how  Da  Vinci  was  shrived,  after  penance,  with 
many  tears — and  received  the  Holy  Sacrament 
according  to  Catholic  ritual ;  how  Torrigiano,  a 
condemned  heretic,  escaped  the  disgrace  of  mar- 
tyrdom by  dying  in  the  prison  of  the  Inquisition 
before  the  capital  sentence  could  be  carried  out ; 
how  Raphael  submitted  his  soul  with  much  con- 
trition, and  left  money  to  the  priests  for  an  altar 
with  a  statue  of  Our  Lady  in  marble  ;  how  the 
death  of  Sebastian  del  Piombo  need  not  be  parti- 


CORREGGIO 

cularly  considered  because  he  had  already  become 
a  religioso  ;  how  the  frescoes  of  Taddeo  Gaddi 
were  so  delightful  that  they  obtained  from  God— 
for  his  posterity — the  most  honourable  offices  in 
the  Church — Deaneries,  Bishoprics,  and  Cardinal- 
ates ;  how  the  architecture  of  Brunelleschi  was 
laid  on  such  sure  foundations  that  it  secured  for 
himself  a  place  of  repose  in  heaven.  All  this,  and 
much  more,  Vasari  tells  us  of  other  painters — but 
of  Correggio  he  says  only  that  "  he  always  lived 
in  the  manner  of  a  good  Christian,  and  then  de- 
parted to  another  world."  The  truth  is  that 
with  Correggio  it  was  the  letter  that  killed,  the 
spirit  that  gave  life.  What  letter  ?  What  spirit  > 
The  letter  of  ecclesiastical  dogma — the  spirit  of 
Christianity. 

All  this  is  finely  wrought  out  in  Mr.  Heaton's 
book  :  and  one  of  the  incidents  he  records  reveal, 
as  by  a  flash  of  light,  that  the  misgivings  of  the 
painter  were  not  unknown  even  in  the  very  arcana 
of  religious  life. 

The  nuns  of  a  neighbouring  convent  \vere  ladies 
of  wealth  and  taste.  They  also,  like  Correggio, 
were  tired  of  the  everlasting  alternative  of  sacred 
pictures  or  bare  walls  ;  and  they  commissioned 
the  young  painter  to  make  for  them  a  "  house 
beautiful."  But  what  should  he  paint  ?  Not  the 
old  story  of  that  Last  Supper,  which  had  so  often 

194 


SANTA  DIANA 

figured  in  the  refectory  of  a  nunnery.  The  Lady 
Abbess  looked  for  many  more  suppers.  She  would 
like  something  more  up  to  date.  He  should  paint 
something  more  enlivening.  He  should  paint  the 
story  of  Diana  returning  from  the  Chase.  Cor- 
reggio,  it  has  been  said,  was  "  innocently  and  un- 
consciously a  born  heathen,"  and  he  revelled  in 
the  task  set  before  him.  The  chamber  was 
vaulted,  and  lighted  only  by  two  casements  ;  but 
never  again  should  it  be  considered  a  dull  place. 
In  the  centre  he  painted  an  exquisite  figure  of  the 
goddess.  Diana  is  in  the  act  of  springing  lightly 
into  her  chariot,  which  is  drawn  by  two  white 
doves.  The  wind  plays  kindly  with  her  garments, 
revealing  how  beautiful  she  is.  Round  the 
chamber  and  over  the  vaulting  of  the  ceiling,  romp 
the  Amoretti,  lovely  boys,  in  groups  of  twos  and 
threes — such  as  Correggio  alone  knew  how  to 
paint.  His  Holiness  objected — but  the  Lady 
Abbess  was  intractable,  and  the  fresco  remained. 
Is  not  the  chaste  goddess  the  very  prototype  of 
the  Order  over  which  she  presided  ? 

Time  moves  quickly  with  the  "  Allegri  "  and 
fresh  demands  are  made  upon  him  for  the  altar- 
pieces  he  dislikes.  The  man  who  could  paint  such 
Cupids  dancing  round  Diana,  is  thought  to  be  the 
man  to  paint  Cherubs  floating  round  the  Blessed 
Virgin.  At  last  comes  the  great  triumph  of  his 

195 


CORREGGIO 

life — the  painting  of  the  dome  of  the  Cathedral  of 
Parma.  As  in  the  case  of  Titian,  in  the  Church 
of  the  Frari  at  Venice,  the  subject  is  "  The  Assump- 
tion." The  design  reveals  in  profusion  all  the 
finest  characteristics  of  the  painter.  The  dome 
has  become  heaven  itself.  Gabriel  the  Archangel 
descends  in  a  sea  of  glory  to  meet  the  "  Mother  of 
God."  She,  ascending,  is  borne  on  the  wings  of  a 
countless  host  ;  and,  following  an  idea  taken  from 
the  early  mosaics  of  the  basilicas,  Correggio  has 
attempted  to  unite  heaven  with  earth — the  Church 
Triumphant  with  the  Church  Militant.  Running 
round  the  dome — at  its  base — he  has  painted  a 
balcony,  or  balustrade,  within  which  stand  the 
Apostles  and  Saints  of  the  Early  Church — their 
attitudes  and  gestures  indicating  the  liveliest 
interest  in  the  celestial  vision.  But  is  it  a  vision  ? 
—says  Correggio.  Is  it  not  the  reality  ?  See,  the 
young  angels  are  all  one  with  the  figures  on  the 
balcony — watching  and  waiting  like  them  ;  and 
in  the  meantime  swinging  incense,  just  as  little 
boys  swing  incense  in  the  choir  when  Christ  is  said 
to  be  upon  the  altar.  In  certain  lights  you  cannot 
distinguish  the  real  incense  as  it  climbs  the  walls, 
from  the  smoke  of  the  burning  of  the  censers  of 
the  heavenly  host. 

But  the  smoke  of  the  burning  of  real  incense 
has  had  its  effect.  After  four  hundred  years  of  it 
there  is  very  little  of  Correggio's  incense  left — the 

196 


MR.  RUSKIN  ANTICIPATED 

picture  is  a  mere  wreck.  It  was  lively  enough, 
however,  in  its  time  ;  and  from  the  first,  stories 
have  been  told  of  it,  some  of  which  are  too  interest- 
ing to  be  forgotten.  It  is  said  that  a  working  lad, 
who  assisted  in  the  preparation  of  the  walls  with 
the  wet  plaster  necessary  for  the  painting  of  fresco, 
remarked  that  "  Messer  Allegri's  picture  looked 
like  a  hash  of  frogs."  Mr.  Heaton  suggests  that 
this  bit  of  rough  criticism  obtained  celebrity 
because  it  expressed  the  unuttered  thought  of 
wiser  men.  To  appreciate  the  point  of  the  story 
it  is  ncessary  to  realize  the  peculiarity,  not  only 
of  Correggio's  design,  but  of  the  favourite  dish, 
which  perhaps  the  boy  understood  better  than  the 
picture.  A  great  company  of  men  and  angels  are 
represented  as  ascending  from  earth  to  heaven. 
They  are  high  over  our  heads  ;  and  looking  up  we 
see  them  foreshortened — their  feet  and  legs  being 
of  necessity  nearer  to  us  than  their  faces.  Now 
the  point  of  the  satire  is  this.  In  a  "  hash  of 
frogs  "  the  hind  legs  only  are  displayed  in  the  dish 
—the  rest  is  left  to  the  imagination. 

Does  this  echo  of  a  caricature  of  centuries  ago 
destroy  the  value  of  the  picture  to  us  ?  or  lessen 
the  glory  of  Correggio's  genius  in  our  eyes  ?  The 
mason's  boy  had  never  heard  of  the  "  correggiosity 
of  Correggio  " — and  yet  his  style  curiously  re- 
sembles that  of  Mr.  Ruskin  when  he  denounces 

197 


CORREGGIO 

Raphael's  cartoon  as  a  mere  decoction  of  fringes, 
muscular  arms,  and  curly  heads  ?  No  doubt  the 
boy  thought  that  he  had  surely  made  an  end  of 
"  Messer  Allegri  "  —as  Mr.  Ruskin  thought  to  have 
made  an  end  of  Raphael.  And  the  Canons  of 
Parma  thought  the  same.  They  would  have  made 
a  clean  sweep  of  the  work  of  one  of  the  five  great 
painters  of  the  Renascence,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  intervention  of  another  of  the  five.  They 
appealed  to  Titian — and  the  verdict  went  against 
them.  Titian  differed  from  the  monks — and  from 
the  boy — and  from  Mr.  Ruskin.  "  If  you  were 
to  fill  the  dome  with  gold,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you 
would  not  do  more  than  measure  the  value  of 
Correggio's  painting." 

In  1519  Correggio  married.  But  the  lives  of 
Antonio  and  Girolama  are  not  so  interesting  as 
are  the  lives  of  some  of  the  great  painters.  The 
"  wolf  "  never  watched  at  their  door.  They  had 
law  suits — which  do  not  concern  us  ;  and  then 
more  money  came — that  was  all.  In  the  same 
year  his  sister  was  married  also  ;  and  it  is  said 
that  the  "  Marriage  of  St.  Catherine,"  now  in  the 
Louvre — one  of  the  loveliest  of  his  pictures — was 
painted  for  her  as  a  wedding  present.  The  legends 
of  his  avarice  and  of  his  untimely  death  through 
attempting  to  carry  home  too  great  a  weight  of 
money — which  the  monks  had  insisted  upon  paying 

198 


CORREGGIO  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

him  in  copper — have  been  proved  to  be  fabulous, 
by  the  discovery  of  documents  showing  his  final 
distribution  of  his  possessions.  In  1521  Correggio 
painted  the  picture  by  which  he  is  best  known  in 
England — the  "  Ecce  Homo  "  of  our  National 
Gallery — then  followed  the  many  beautiful  Ma- 
donnas, and  Holy  Families  which  have  carried  his 
fame  through  all  the  galleries  of  Europe.  But 
the  quarrel  with  the  cathedral  authorities  not- 
withstanding the  arbitration  of  Titian,  deepened, 
and  with  the  death  of  his  wife  there  fell  upon  him 
a  great  depression.  He  retired  from  Parma  to 
his  native  village — where  for  the  rest  of  his  life  he 
refused  to  paint  any  but  mythological  subjects. 
His  "  Jupiter  and  lo  "- 

We'll  show  thee  lo,  as  she  was  a  maid, 
And  how  she  was  beguiled  and  surprised, 
As  lively  painted  as  the  deed  was  done. 

was  painted  about  this  time,  and  may  have  been 
the  very  picture  Shakespeare  describes  in  The 
Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

Correggio  died  in  1534.  How  his  life  differed 
from  the  lives  of  his  great  contemporaries.  Com- 
pare his  quiet  labours,  in  a  provincial  town,  with 
the  strenuous  enterprise  of  Da  Vinci  and  Michael 
Angelo  ;  or  his  brief  years  with  the  Ten  decades 
of  Titian  ;  or  his  retired  habits  with  the  meteoric 

199 


CORREGGIO 

splendour  of  Raphael's  career.  The  stars  did  not 
dance  together  at  his  birth  ;  he  had  no  princely 
revenue  to  enjoy  ;  there  was  no  King  to  minister 
at  his  death ;  no  contest  between  great  cities  for 
the  honour  of  making  his  grave.  It  is  a  curious 
incident  that  while  all  the  world  writes  his  name 
"  Correggio  "  he  was  content  to  write  "Coraggio" 
— which  is  simply  the  Italian  for  "  courage."  I  take 
Correggio  as  the  type  of  the  artist  who  lives  the 
life  of  a  good  citizen,  earning  his  daily  bread  by 
his  Art,  and  dying  before  the  reward  comes — This 
is  his  record. 

A  child  who  never  had  a  birthday — for  the  old- 
est register  of  his  parish  begins  a  year  too  late. 

A  lad  fairly  educated — making  the  best  of  a 
Literary  Society  in  a  country  town. 

A  young  man,  driven  from  his  home  by  the 
plague — discovering  in  the  galleries  of  a  provincial 
city  pictures  which  inspire  him  to  be  a  painter. 

An  artist  without  the  temptations  of  riches  or 
poverty — beloved  of  prince,  and  poet,  and  scholar, 
and  painter — happy  only  in  the  affection  of  his 
wife  and  children. 

A  master-painter — counting  himself  only  an 
art-student  to  the  last. 

A  student,  living  within  a  few  days'  journey  of 
Rome,  who  never  visited  that  city,  nor  saw  the 
works  of  his  great  contemporaries. 

200 


RECONCILIATION 

A  man  who  revolted  from  the  old  Faith,  without 
making  peace  with  the  new. 

A  man  whose  interest  in  life  died  when  his  wife 
died,  and  who  within  a  few  years  was  forgotten. 

Forgotten,  that  is,  by  his  neighbours.  Forgot- 
ten for  a  little  while— or  rather  only  beginning  to 
be  remembered.  We  remember  him  now,  and  his 
works.  It  is  not  necessary  to  enumerate  the  splen- 
dours of  sweetness  and  grace  that  came  from  his 
easel  in  the  forty  years  of  his  life.  As  Da  Vinci 
had  reconciled  Classic  Art  with  living  flesh  and 
blood ;  as  Michael  Angelo,  had  reconciled  it  with 
passion  ;  Titian,  with  colour  ;  Raphael,  with  all 
these  ;  so  Correggio  reconciled  it  with  beauty. 

It  is  not  always  during  the  lifetime  of  an  artist 
nor  necessarily  at  its  close,  that  the  true  measure 
of  his  influence  can  be  determined.  But  the  con- 
temporaries and  immediate  followers  of  Correg- 
gio did  not  fail  to  perceive  that  he  had  created  a 
new  standard  in  Art.  Vasari  thinks  that  he  had 
a  special  trick  of  painting  a  woman's  hair,  but  that 
is  only  the  conceit  of  a  second-rate  painter  who 
never  saw  very  deeply  into  anything.  Vasari, 
however,  discloses  the  truth,  incidentally,  without 
being  himself  quite  conscious  of  it.  A  Florentine 
poet,  at  the  instance  of  the  artists  of  the  day, 
composed  some  verses  in  Latin  as  a  tribute  to  his 

201 


CORREGGIO 

genius,  which  I  will  translate,  not  literally,  but 
dramatising  them  a  little.  The  Graces  unite  to 
petition  Jove  that  Correggio,  alone  of  mortal  men, 
shall  be  permitted  to  paint  them. 

EUPHROSYNE 

O  Father  !    Sovereign  lord  of  earth  and  air ! 
Thou  who  dost  hearken  to  the  Muses'  prayer  ! 
Thou  who  hast  made  us  so  divinely  fair  ! 

AGLAIA 

We  come,  thy  Charites,  by  right  divine, 

We  come  as  sisters  of  the  sacred  Nine, 

We  come  to  lay  our  griefs  before  thy  shrine. 

THALIA 

We,  in  whose  beauty  gods  and  men  delight — 
We  have  been  painted — ah,  the  fearful  sight ! 
Aglaia,  glum  !  Euphrosyne,  a  fright  ! 

EUPHROSYNE 

Forbid  it,  Jove  !    Michael  is  too  severe  ; 
Raphael  is  cold  ;  Titian  is  insincere ; 
Leonardo  is  a  learned  engineer. 

ALL 

There  is  a  man  in  Parma  ! 

That  man  is,  of  course,  Antonio  Allegri  da  Correg- 
1  gio.  Correggio  is  summoned  to  Olympus.  There, 
amidst  the  Immortals,  the  Graces  stand  unveiled— 
et  nudas  cerneret  inde  Deas.  What  is  the  Diploma, 
or  Letters  Patent  under  the  Great  Seal,  of  a  Royal 
Society  of  Artists  compared  with  this  ?  Correggio 
is  pronounced  by  Jupiter  at  once  and  for  ever  to 

202 


FIVE  LOVERS 

be  the  Court  painter  of  the  gods.  For  myself,  how- 
ever, I  am  content  to  believe  that  Correggio  had 
married  a  beautiful  woman,  and  that  it  was  not 
Aglaia,  nor  Thalia,  nor  Euphrosyne,  that  he  saw 
amongst  the  stars,  but  the  lovely  Girolama. 

Let  me  revert  for  a  moment  to  the  little  comedy 
with  which  I  began.  I  compared  the  Renascence 
to  a  drama  in  five  acts,  with  five  great  actors  on 
the  stage  together.  Without  turning  it  into  a 
tragedy,  let  us  imagine  that  the  five  are  all  in  love 
\vith  the  same  enchantress.  The  first  shall  be  a 
scholar — with  the  intellectual  force  of  a  Da  Vinci— 
a  philosopher — a  very  Prospero  in  learning — 

Being  reputed 

In  dignity,  and  for  the  liberal  arts 
Without  a  parallel — 

He  should  talk  to  her  of  the  embroidery  in  her 
hand,  or  of  the  book  she  was  reading — and  she 
should  take  him  as — her  teacher. 

The  second  lover  should  be  a  hero — with  the 
high  aspirations  of  a  Michael  Angelo.  His  eyes 
should  be  lifted  to  heaven — and  she  should  say — 

I  saw  his  image  in  his  mind, 
And  to  his  honours,  and  his  radiant  parts 
Am  consecrate.     Let  me  go  with  him. 

— and  she  should  go  with  him — not  as  his  Desde- 
mona,  but  as  his  friend. 

203 


CORREGGIO 

The  third  should  bring  to  her  the  glory  of  the 
Orient — light  and  colour — such  light  and  colour 
as  Titian  painted.     But  like  the  Prince  in  the 
Merchant  of  Venice,  he  should  let  his  mind  dwell 
too  much  upon  the  quality  of  the  caskets- 
Is' t  like  that  lead  contains  her  ?   Twere  damnation 
To  think  so  base  a  thought — 

— and  he  should  choose  the  golden. 

The  fourth,  with  the  calm,  serene,  measuring 
eyes  of  a  Raphael,  should  seem  to  look  past  her  ; 
and  she — as  if  she  also  looked  past  him  into  the 
future,  and  sawr  the  decadence  coming,  should  say, 
with  Coriolanus — 

My  soul  aches, 

To  know,  when  two  authorities  are  up, 
Neither  supreme,  how  soon  confusion 
May  enter. 

The  fifth  should  look  straight  into  her  eyes— 
not  at  the  embroidery  in  her  hands,  not  at  the 
book  she  was  reading,  not  at  the  richness  of  her 
jewels,  not  past  her,  but  straight  into  her  eyes- 
remembering  that,  after  all,  the  Muses  were  but 
women.     I  know  that  Correggio  had  never  read 
Shakespeare,  but  he  had  read  Dante,  and  knew 
that  it  was  "  the  drawing  together  of  the  eyes  " 
il  disiato  riso  —  that  alone  overcame,  or  even  so- 
much  as  counted  in  love.     Correggio  was  the  first 
painter  who  painted  woman  for  her  own  sake. 

204 


THE  NORTHERN  TEAM 

Is  it  a  strange  thing  that  simple  beauty  should 
be  the  last  gift  of  the  Renascence  ?  Does  it  mean 
that  beauty  is  the  highest  gift  ?  or  that  when 
the  highest  has  been  attained  decadence  is  of 
necessity  at  hand  ?  As  a  fact  the  Decadence  was 
at  hand.  Look  again  at  my  little  chart  of  the  lives 
of  the  painters.  It  will  be  seen  that  in  the  year 
in  which  Michael  Angelo  died  there  was  scarcely 
a  great  master  living  in  the  world.  Had  all  the 
stars,  then,  faded  out  of  the  heavens  for  ever  ?— 

The  Pleiads,  Hyads,  with  the  Northern  Team  ; 
And  great  Orion's  more  refulgent  beam  ; 

Ah,  no.  As  surely  as  the  world  goes  round,  one 
constellation  is  succeeded  by  another.  Why— 
here  is  one  more  coincidence.  The  year  in  which 
Angelo  died — in  the  south — was  the  very  year  in 
which  Shakespeare  was  born— in  the  north— and 
a  new  Renascence  followed  of  which  we  have  not 
yet  seen  the  end.  Do  we  ask  what  will  be  the 
end  ?  I  am  not  afraid  for  the  end.  I  am  not 
afraid  for  Art  any  more  than  for  Religion. 


205 


ANNO  DOMINI 


CLAUDE.     Call  me  at  sunrise. 
MESSENGER.     The  day  is  already  breaking. 


PLATE  XXXV. 


FROM  A  PAINTING  IN  THE. 
MUSEE  ROYALE,  PARIS 


ANNO  DOMINI 


IX  ANGELS  have 
come  and  gone — a 
seventh  stands  at 
the  gate.  Shall  I 
call  it  The  Angel 
of  the  Decadence  ? 
The  word  seems  so 
natural  under  the 
circumstances  of 
its  coming.  First 
we  have  seen  the 
Awakening — that  is,  the  revival  of  Art  after  the 
darkness  of  the  dark  ages.  Then  the  exploits  of 
the  giants — the  five  great  painters — and  finally 
the  dwindling  of  the  sacred  flame  which  inspired 
them,  or  at  least  the  scattering  of  the  fire  amongst 
a  multitude  of  lesser  men. 

209 


ANNO  DOMINI 

But  the  word  "  Decadence  "  is  an  ugly  word  at 
its  best,  and  at  its  worst  has  an  incurable  twist  in 
its  meaning.  The  apparent  dwindling  of  a  flame 
is  not  necessarily  decay — the  flame  may  be  doing 
its  work  by  making  many  hearts  incandescent ; 
nor  is  the  scattering  of  light  decadence  if  it  kindles 
light  in  other  stars.  Moreover  I  believe  with 
Robert  Browning  that — 

The  year's  at  the  spring, 
And  day's  at  the  morn  ; 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hill-side's  dew  pearled ; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing ; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn; 
God's  in  His  Heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world. 

So  I  run  my  pen  through  the  word  "  Decadence," 
and  write  in  its  stead — Anno  Domini. 

Another  flight  of  birds  of  passage,  and  it  is  all 
over.  The  summer  is  past — the  Renascence  is  at 
an  end.  Precisely  the  same  thing  has  happened 
as  followed  the  Awakening. 

Where  do  they  go  ?  Why  do  they  go  in  flights  ? 
Why  are  there  such  long  intervals  between  flight 
and  flight  ?  Look  at  the  vertical  line,  which 
represents  the  year  of  our  Lord,  fifteen  hundred. 
It  impales  twenty  or  more  of  the  names  of  the 
most  distinguished  painters  of  the  Renascence. 
From  first  to  last  their  lives  cover  the  greater  part 

210 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE 


of  two  centuries,  but  how  unequally  are  they 
distributed  during  that  period.  For  about  ten 
years  they  were  almost  to  a  man  living  together — 

I 

THt  BtULJNl 


MANTtCNA 


EoTTKtLLI 


0*  VINCI 

UPPI 


TiTtAN 


and  then  they  vanished,  one  by  one,  like  swallows 
going  home.  After  the  passing  of  Michael  Angelo 
only  two  or  three  remained  above  the  horizon — 
Titian,  and  Tintoretto,  and  Veronese — as  if  they 

211 


ANNO  DOMINI 

lingered  over  Venice  afraid  to  cross  the  Adriatic 
on  their  way  to  Olympus.  There  came  another 
flight,  a  century  later,  of  the  painters  of  the  De- 
cadence— and  then,  so  far  as  the  Art  of  Italy  is 
concerned — there  was  an  end  of  all  things. 

But,  it  may  be  asked,  where  were  the  poets  all 
this  time  ?  Look  once  more  at  the  diagram,  and 
it  will  be  seen  that  the  line  marking  the  division 
of  the  fifteenth  century  from  the  sixteenth  marks 
also  the  meridian  of  the  life  of  Ludovico  Ariosto. 
Ariosto — like  Dante — was  the  central  figure  in  a 
great  company  of  painters,  and  both  of  them  were 
crowned.  It  is  a  ceremony  of  unique  interest,  this 
crowning  with  laurel  of  a  poet,  chosen  by  the  mag- 
nates of  Church  and  State,  with  the  suffrages  of 
the  people.  The  brightest  intellects  of  the  day  ga- 
thered in  the  Capitol  of  Rome  to  the  coronation  of 
their  favourite.  And  Ariosto  was  a  favourite. 
He  preferred,  as  did  the  Florentine,  to  be  a  first- 
rate  Italian  poet,  rather  than  a  second-rate  writer 
of  Latin  verses.  This  was  against  the  advice  of  his 
learned  friend — Pietro  Bembo — who  should  have 
known  better,  for  the  Cardinal  was  himself  as  fine 
a  scholar  in  Italian  as  in  Latin.  In  the  studio  of 
the  artist  Ariosto  was  idolized.  He  was  a  year  older 
than  Angelo,  and  six  years  older  than  Titian.  It 
is  to  Titian  that  we  are  indebted  for  the  delight  of 
seeing  him  face  to  face.  It  is  said  that  between 

212 


ARIOSTO  AND  TASSO 

his  Orlando  Furioso  and  his  Satires  there  was 
something  to  please  everybody.  Even  the  ban- 
ditti, who  infested  the  country,  and  would  rob  a 
painter  or  hold  him  for  ransom  without  scruple, 
doffed  their  caps  to  Ariosto  and  escorted  him 
politely  and  with  safety  to  his  castle.  But  he 
passed  with  the  rest,  and  it  is  difficult  to  trace 
any  special  mark  that  his  poetry  has  left  on  the 
Art  of  the  Renascence.  Even  a  great  poet  can 
be  overshadowed,  if  his  companions  in  Art  are 
greater  than  he. 

And  if  Ariosto  could  not  save  Art  from  the  fury, 
neither  could  Tasso  deliver  it,  any  more  than  he 
delivered  Jerusalem.  It  is  impossible,  however, 
in  an  incidental  reference  like  this,  to  do  justice  to 
his  genius.  It  is  not  with  Poetry  that  I  am  con- 
cerned, but  with  Art.  Sometimes,  at  the  National 
Gallery,  where  the  pictures  are  covered  with  glass, 
we  see  as  if  it  were  part  of  the  painting  a  vision 
never  contemplated  by  the  painter.  It  is  the 
reflection  of  a  picture  on  the  opposite  wall.  And 
the  same  thing  occurs  with  Poetry.  In  its  very 
brightness  it  reflects  the  glories,  the  shortcomings, 
the  sins,  of  the  studio.  Thus  in  the  mistakes — the 
"  howlers  "  as  they  would  be  called  in  the  schools — 
of  Shakespeare,  in  his  references  to  Art,  we  see 
something  of  the  degradation  to  which  Art  had 
sunk  in  his  days.  As  Dante  was  the  poet  of  the 

213 


ANNO  DOMINI 

Awakening,  and  Ariosto  of  the  Renascence,  so 
Tasso  was  the  poet  of  the  Decadence.  Does  he  un- 
consciously reflect  the  sin  of  the  Decadence  ?  or 
does  he  write  satirically  ?  In  a  lovely  passage 
describing  Armida's  Garden,  we  read  : — 

So  in  the  passing  of  a  day,  doth  pass 
The  bud  and  blossom  of  the  life  of  man — 
Nor  ere  doth  flourish  more  ;    but  like  the  grass 
Cut  down,  becometh  wither'd,  pale,  and  wan  ; 
Oh,  gather  then  the  rose,  while  time  thou  hast ; 
Short  is  the  day — done  when  it  scant  began  ; 
Gather  the  rose  of  love,  while  yet  thou  mayst ; 
Loving  be  loved,  embracing  be  embraced. 

That  is  a  translation  by  an  English  poet,  Fairfax, 
made  perhaps  while  Tasso  was  still  living.  But 
are  they  the  words  of  Tasso  ?  or  even  of  Armida  ? 
Ah,  no  !  they  are  the  words  of  Armida's  parrot— 
spoken  to  its  feathered  fellows,  who  all  sit  hushed 
to  listen. 

Whether  of  set  purpose  or  not,  it  is  a  satire.  It 
is  a  reflection  as  in  a  glass  before  a  picture  of  the 
insincerities  of  the  studio.  The  great  painters  of 
the  Renascence  had  spoken,  and  the  Decadents 
were  content  to  repeat  what  they  had  said.  This 
they  were  taught  to  do — as  parrots  are  taught  to 
phrase  sentences  not  inspired  by  their  own 
thoughts.  How  much  did  Tasso  help  them,  or 
did  they  help  Tasso?  The  time  came  for  his 

214 


f 

0 


PLATE    XXXVI.       THE    POET    OF    THE    DECADENCE 

FROM    AN    ENGRAVING    HY    RAPHAEL    MORGHEN 


THE  CARRACCI 

crowning  in  1595  —  but  he  died  before  the  ap- 
pointed day.  So  did  everybody  else,  as  far  as  Art 
is  concerned.  If  Tasso  had  lived  a  day  longer, 
and  been  crowned,  there  would  not  have  been  a 
single  painter  of  the  first  rank  living  in  the  world 
to  acclaim  him  laureate. 

Except  the  Carracci — that  brings  us  back  to 
terra  firma.  For  at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth 
century  it  cannot  be  said  that  all  was  lost.  The 
Carracci  rallied  the  forces.  A  new  theory  was 
established  which  proved  effective,  if  not  lasting. 
It  was  the  theory  of  the  Eclectics.  There  is  no 
doubt,  said  the  Carracci,  that  there  have  been 
many  great  painters  with  many  excellencies.  But 
they  were  divided.  If  Michael  Angelo  excelled 
Titian  in  imagination,  and  Titian  excelled  Michael 
Angelo  in  colour,  an  excellence  is  conceivable  that 
should  surpass  both — and  it  is  ours  to  discover  it. 
That  is  the  theory  of  eclecticism,  and  it  redeemed 
Art  from  the  extinction  with  which  it  seemed  to 
be  threatened  for  at  least  a  century. 

Who  shall  measure  the  value  of  that  century  of 
respite,  or  the  debt  we  owe  to  the  two  brothers 
and  a  cousin  we  are  content  to  lump  together  as 
"The  Carracci.1'  Ludovico,  the  eldest  of  the  three, 
founded  a  school  at  Bologna,  and  only  to  read  the 
names  of  his  many  disciples  is  sufficient  to  enable 
us  to  realize  something  of  the  far-reaching  effect 

215 


ANNO  DOMINI 

of  his  dogged  perseverance  in  the  attempt  to 
produce  great  painters  by  imitating  great  painters. 
Besides  Agostino  and  Annibale,  whose  brilliant 
frescoes  in  the  Palace  Farnese  were  painted  in 
rivalry  of  Michael  Angelo,  there  were  Guercino — 
whose  lovely  picture  of  the  "  Dead  Christ  with 
Angels  "  is  well  known  in  our  National  Gallery  ; 
Domenichino, — the  painter  of  '  The  Last  Com- 
munion of  St.  Jerome/'  hung  in  St.  Peter's  as  the 
companion  picture  to  Raphael's  painting  of  "  The 
Transfiguration  ;  "  Carlo  Dolci — whose  very  name 
betrays  his  weakness  as  well  as  his  strength  ;  and 
above  all,  Guido  Reni,  the  painter  of  the  Aurora  in 
the  Rospigliosi  of  the  Quirinal. 

We  must  pause  for  a  moment  here.  The  name 
of  Guido  Reni  must  not  be  passed  over  as  one  in  a 
list.  Guido  was  the  painter  of  the  Aurora.  I 
have  always  thought  that  Aurora  was  rather  a 
naughty  girl.  At  any  rate  she  was  troublesome- 
calling  everybody  in  the  morning  before  daybreak. 
Besides,  she  was  a  little  uncertain  in  her  temper. 
I  am  sure  that  her  brother,  the  Sun,  and  her  sis- 
ter, the  Moon,  must  have  had  a  hard  time  of  it — to 
say  nothing  of  Hyperion,  her  father,  with  whom  she 
appears  to  have  been  scarcely  on  speaking  terms. 
Even  when  she  drove  out  in  Apollo's  chariot — 
though  some  say  she  had  horses  and  a  carriage  of 
her  own — it  was  arranged  that  she  should  have  it 

216 


fc    O 

:  § 

W    O 

§1 


EE, 

o  o 

H 

u 


AURORA 

all  to  herself.  If  she  chanced  to  pass  Phoebus  on 
the  way  she  would  hastily  alight  before  he  sprang 
into  her  seat,  and  took  the  reins. 

At  the  Rospigliosi  Aurora  is  seen  at  her  best. 
She  has  quitted  the  chariot  without  assuming  a 
fit  of  the  sulks.  Phoebus  has  taken  her  place, 
while  she  herself  leads  the  dance  of  the  Hours,  as 
they  all  climb  the  arch  of  heaven  together.  As 
Guido  paints  seven  of  these  Hours,  with  clasped 
hands,  surrounding  the  bright  god,  I  suppose  he 
means  that  the  sun  rises  at  seven  o'clock.  This 
seems  a  little  late  in  the  day.  But  then,  the  picture 
was  painted  late  in  the  day.  Guido  was  born— 
as  Minerva  said  to  Arachne — at  the  wrong  time. 
He  was  born  in  1575,  with  the  Eclectics  of  the 
Decadence — whereas  he  should  have  been  born  a 
century  before,  with  Correggio  of  the  Renascence. 
What  can  we  expect  from  a  painter  living  just  a 
hundred  years  after  the  Golden  Age. 

Perhaps  we  get  a  little  tired  sometimes  of  hear- 
ing about  the  Golden  Age.  Perhaps  we  are  not 
quite  sure  that  the  period  we  call  the  Renascence 
was  of  pure  gold — it  may  have  been  silver  gilt. 
Perhaps  the  days  of  the  Decadence  were  not  alto- 
gether brass.  We  have  no  Vasari  to  raise  the 
latch  of  the  studios  of  the  Eclectics.  The  gentle 
Giorgio — il  racontatore  decano  of  studio  life  died 
while  Guido  was  still  in  the  nursery.  There  is, 
however,  an  incident  that  reveals  the  artist  at 

217 


ANNO  DOMINI 

his  best — just  as  he  painted  Aurora  at  her  best. 
A  visitor  to  his  studio,  impressed  by  the  grace 
of  his  figures,  questioned  him  as  to  the  name  of 
the  woman  whose  astonishing  loveliness  had  been 
his  inspiration.  "  I  will  show  you,"  replied  Guido, 
c<  whence  I  derive  my  inspiration/'  Summoning 
the  servitor  employed  to  grind  his  colours,  a 
huge,  uncouth  fellow,  with  a  look  more  like  that 
of  a  devil  than  a  man,  he  made  him  kneel  down, 
with  his  face  uplifted  towards  the  light.  Then, 
taking  his  pencil,  he  drew  a  Magdalen,  in  just  the 
same  attitude,  but  with  a  face  as  lovely  as  that 
of  an  angel.  The  visitor  attributed  it  to  enchant- 
ment. "  No/'  replied  the  painter,  "  if  the  beauty 
and  purity  we  seek  for  exist  in  the  artist's  mind 
it  matters  very  little  what  or  who  is  his  model." 
The  story  ends  there.  It  does  not  relate  how  that 
very  day  Guido  had  received  another  visitor  - 
the  Seventh  Angel  of  the  Renascence. 

Guido  Reni  lived,  however,  to  see  the  sunrise 
painted  without  the  intervention  of  Aurora.  In 
1600,  the  very  year  in  which  Claude  was  born, 
he  left  his  native  town  and  settled  in  Rome — • 
where,  as  a  disciple  of  the  Carracci,  he  worked  for 
twenty  years.  Before  he  returned  to  Bologna, 
Claude,  still  little  more  than  a  lad,  had  moved 
upon  the  scene.  By  the  time  Guido  died  in  his 
old  home,  Claude  had  led  the  artists  out  of  the 
studio  into  the  fields. 

218 


THE  ECLECTICS 

But  if  Guido  Reni  was  one  of  half  a  dozen — and 
the  six  were  only  half  a  dozen  of  the  twenty-five, 
and  the  twenty-five  were  all  of  one  schopl — were 
there  not  enough  painters  in  Italy  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  seventeenth  century  ?  Ah,  yes — there 
were  enough  painters,  and  I  am  not  speaking 
derisively  of  their  claims  to  our  regard.  But  in 
Art,  the  same  thing  can  never  be  done  twice — and 
what  they  were  seeking  to  do  had  been  done 
already.  Their  art  was  based  on  reverence  for 
the  great  masters.  Not  blind  worship,  but  intelli- 
gent appreciation.  They  knew  the  masters'  strong 
points — they  knew  also  their  little  weaknesses. 
They  would  emulate  their  strength,  they  would 
eschew  their  defects.  They  would  paint  with  the 
grace  of  Raphael — with  the  imagination  of  Michael 
Angelo — with  the  fire  of  Titian — with  the  tender- 
ness of  Correggio — with  the  correctness  of  Da 
Vinci.  It  was  a  noble  aspiration.  But  it  left  out 
of  account  one  thing.  Genius  is  not  catching  like 
fever,  nor  hereditary  like  the  gout.  And  the 
Eclectics  soon  found  themselves  rivalled  by 
another  School,  of  which  Michael  Angelo  Car- 
avaggio — how  splendid  the  name  sounds — was 
chief.  He  was  born  a  few  years  after  Angelo 
died,  and  did  not  name  himself.  But  he  lived 
to  create  a  following — -Spagnoletto,  and  his  pupil 
Salvator  Rosa — strong  men,  calling  themselves 
Naturalists.  Like  the  Carracci,  they  also  believed 

219 


ANNO  DOMINI 

that  they  knew  the  trick,  that  they  had  found 
out  how  Michael  Angelo  did  it.  The  wind  bloweth 
where  it  listeth — and  thou  canst  not  tell  whence 
it  cometh,  or  whither  it  goeth. 

And  yet  it  was  still  Anno  Domini,  and  so  long 
as  God  is  in  Heaven  the  world  is  all  right.  Just 
then  a  star  slipped  from  the  sky.  Down,  down,  it 
came,  like  a  crystal  lamp,  till  it  rested  on  a  little 
village  in  the  north-east  corner  of  France.  At  the 
very  time  when  the  Naturalists  were  disputing 
with  the  Eclectics,  in  Italy,  as  to  the  best  way  of 
providing  the  world  with  Michael  Angelos,  Shakes- 
peare, in  England,  was  dreaming  his  dream  of  a 
Midsummer  Night,  and  Claude  Lorraine,  the  first 
landscape  painter,  was  born  on  the  banks  of  the 
Moselle. 

Was  Claude,  then,  the  Seventh  Angel  of  the 
Renascence  ?  I  do  not  say  that — any  more  than 
that  Cimabue  was  the  first,  or  that  Goethe  was 
himself  the  Zeit-geist  which  a  little  later  gave  us 
"  Wilhelm  Meister  "  and  "  Faust."  I  say  only 
that  Claude  was  the  first  painter  to  see  the  sun 
rise,  and  that  the  light  which  flashed  upon  his 
canvas  was  more  than  the  breaking  of  another  day 
,  — it  heralded  the  dawn  of  Landscape  Art.  Men 
had  indeed  painted  landscape,  from  the  time  when 
Titian  began  it,  as  backgrounds  for  more  serious 
subjects.  But  it  was  a  new  thing  when  Claude 

220 


A  RUNAWAY 

painted  the  opening  of  the  gates  of  day  without 
so  much  as  inviting  Aurora  or  Apollo  to  sit  for 
their  portraits.  Every  landscape  painter  does  it 
now.  For  all  Turner  cared,  or  Constable,  or  David 
Cox,  the  horses  of  Apollo  might  never  have  been 
harnessed  to  his  chariot,  and  Aurora  might  have 
worn  the  neatest  of  neat  gloves  upon  her  rosy 
fingers.  It  is  a  great  change.  How  did  it  all 
come  about  ? 

Claude  began  it,  with  his  paintings  of  sunrise. 
We  can  learn  more  from  the  story  of  his  life  than 
from  any  amount  of  theorising.  As  a  child  he 
was  of  a  reserved  and  thoughtful  temperament, 
intensely  affected  by  the  sight  of  anything  beauti- 
ful, but  otherwise  apparently  dull,  because  he 
found  no  means  for  the  expression  of  the  one 
passion  of  his  life.  He  was  of  humble  parentage, 
counted  a  dunce  at  school,  and  taken  thence  to 
be  apprenticed  to  a  pastry  cook.  But  he  was 
surrounded  with  scenes  of  great  pastoral  beauty- 
fine  forests,  rich  meadows,  watered  by  one  of  the 
loveliest  of  the  rivers  of  France.  He  fled  to  the 
fields — he  fled  he  knew  not  where — only  away- 
hungry  and  footsore — but  with  the  sky  above  him, 
and  the  trees  and  rivers  and  fields  around  him. 
And  with  all  this  he  is  to  be  a  great  painter.  What 
shall  he  paint  ? 

He  found  his  way  to  Rome.     His  manners  were 

221 


ANNO  DOMINI 

so  untaught,  and  he  was  so  ignorant  of  the  language 
that  it  was  difficult  to  obtain  employment.  At 
last  a  painter,  Agostino  Tassi,  hired  him  to  grind 
his  colours  and  to  clean  his  palette.  Well,  here 
Claude's  life  was  to  begin.  He  who  could  not 
work  in  the  school  or  the  shop,  could  work  very 
well  now.  His  master  taught  him  some  of  the 
rudiments  of  Art.  What  shall  we  expect  him  to 
paint  ? 

He  must  realize  his  ideal  of  beauty  in  some  form. 
To  him  it  has  been  given  to  see,  and  hear,  and  feel, 
through  his  eyes.  The  Divine  Master  did  not 
inspire  him  to  paint  jam  tarts  and  sugar  plums. 
He  would  scarcely  care  to  paint  the  companions 
who  had  dubbed  him  dunce.  He  positively  could 
not  paint  the  great  heroes  in  whose  presence  he 
had  never  stood,  and  of  whom,  being  a  dunce,  he 
had  never  read.  The  skies,  the  rivers,  the  trees, 
the  great  sea — these  are  his  gods — these  only  have 
not  thrust  him  from  them,  offended  at  his  stupidity 
— these  only  have  awakened  in  him  the  sense  of  a 
divine  gift  which  his  soul  cherishes.  He  knows 
nothing  of  the  gods  of  Guido  ;  or  the  saints  of  the 
Carracci  ;  but  he  does  know  that  the  sun  rises 
every  day.  How  could  it  be  otherwise  than  that 
Claude  should  be  a  landscape  painter  ? 

It  is  true  that  he  still  considered  it  necessary  to 
-embellish  his  landscapes  with  little  figures,  con- 
ceived in  the  old  style.  One  he  would  call  "  The 

222 


DIDO  AS  A  FIGURE 

Marriage  of  Isaac  and  Rebecca/'  another  "  Nar- 
cissus and  Echo  "  —and  still  another,  "  The  Em- 
barkation of  the  Queen  of  Sheba  " — though  in 
each  case  the  action  would  be  laid  in  strictly 
Italian  scenery,  and  the  figures  be  neither  Greek, 
nor  Oriental,  nor  African.  Just  as  in  the  earlier 
schools — when  apparently  artists  had  not  noticed 
that  the  sun  rises  every  morning  and  sets  in  the 
evening — painters  used  to  smuggle  landscapes  in- 
to figure  pictures,  just  to  enliven  them  with  a  bit 
of  blue  sky,  so  in  the  time  of  Claude  it  was  de 
riguer  to  add  figures  to  landscape — (<  just  to  give 
it  interest."  The  superstition  died  hard — but  it 
died.  It  died  at  the  hand  of  Turner.  He  also 
had  thought  it  necessary  to  enliven  his  pictures 
with  the  mythology  of  Homer,  and  the  adventures 
of  the  patriarchs  of  the  Old  Testament.  He 
painted  Carthage,  from  his  imagination,  and  added 
—also  from  his  imagination — something  said  to 
be  the  beautiful  Tyrian  Queen.  She  is  represented 
as  a  "  figure."  But  Dido  was  more  than  a  figure — 
she  was  a  very  real  woman.  We  know  a  good  deal 
about  Dido.  In  the  Carlyle  reminiscences  the 
story  is  told  of  his  wife's  childhood.  Jane  made 
great  progress  in  Latin,  and  was  in  Virgil  when 
nine  years  old  She  always  loved  her  doll — but 
when  she  got  into  Virgil  she  thought  it  shame  to 
care  for  a  doll.  On  her  tenth  birthday  she  built  a 
funeral  pile  of  lead  pencils  and  sticks  of  cinamon, 

223 


ANNO  DOMINI 

and  poured  over  it  some  sort  of  perfume.  She 
then  recited  the  speech  of  Dido,  stabbed  her  doll, 
and  let  out  all  the  sawdust ;  after  that  she  con- 
sumed it  to  ashes,  and  then  burst  into  a  passion 
of  tears. 

Now  Dido  was  not  thus  stabbed.  She  stabbed 
herself,  with  her  own  hand,  for  the  sake  of  her 
people.  But  you  could  not  expect  that  of  a  doll. 
Otherwise  the  story  is  beautifully  told — of  the 
Evolution  in  Art  which,  working  quickly  or  slowly, 
makes  surely  for  the  extinction  of  dolls  in  land- 
scape painting.  There  is  in  the  National  Gallery 
a  painting  by  Claude,  entitled  in  the  official  cata- 
logue, "  David  at  the  Cave  of  Adullam."  But  the 
catalogue  thoughtfully  adds  that  there  is  some 
doubt  whether  the  picture  does  not  represent 
"  Sinon  brought  before  Priam."  How  delightful 
to  be  able  to  paint  a  picture  that  shall  thus  repre- 
sent either  of  two  incidents — the  beautiful  story 
of  the  Warrior  King,  refusing  to  drink  of  the  water 
brought  to  him  in  his  distress  of  thirst  by  his 
companions,  because  they  had  fetched  it  at  the 
peril  of  their  lives — or  the  cunning  of  the  Greek 
spy,  who  betrayed  Troy  with  his  Greek  gift.  There 
seems  at  first  sight  a  considerable  difference  be- 
tween the  act  of  pouring  out  of  a  vessel  of  water 
before  the  Lord,  and  the  bringing  into  a  city  of 
the  wooden  horse — but  what  is  that  to  the  painter, 
if  only  he  is  permitted  to  substitute  dolls  for  real 

224 


THE  DROLLERIES 

flesh  and  blood  ?  And  think  of  the  advantages 
of  not  being  too  particular.  A  picture  that  repre- 
sents to  us  anything — or  nothing — may  serve  the 
exigencies  of  to-day  and  of  to-morrow.  "  This  is 
Daniel,"  said  the  showman,  "  and  those  are  the 
lions.  You  may  easily  distinguish  Daniel  from 
the  lions. "  The  showman  has  the  advantage  over 
the  authorities  of  the  National  Gallery. 

If  it  is  asked  why  Claude,  when  he  ran  away 
from  his  jam  tarts  and  sugar  plums,  did  not  leave 
his  dolls  behind,  or  drown  them  at  the  Moselle, 
my  answer  is  that  he  found  them  in  Rome.  They 
were  the  debris  of  the  broken-up  schools  of  the 
Renascence.  The  love  of  Nature  had  been  sup- 
pressed. It  is  true  that  every  sketch  by  Titian  of 
the  mountainous  district  of  Cadore  where  he  was 
born — every  pleasant  Italian  landscape  full  of 
villas  and  churches  used  by  Raphael  as  a  back- 
ground for  his  pictures  was  an  incentive  to  fresh 
effort  to  unveil  her  face.  But  Nature  is  a  jealous 
mistress,  and  must  be  loved  for  herself  alone. 
There  were  landscape  painters  before  Claude. 
Great  things  had  been  done,  if  greatness  is  to  be 
measured  by  the  yard — and  marvellous  things,  if 
we  are  to  be  content  with  "  drolleries.1'  Paul  Brill, 
chief  landscape  painter  to  the  Pope — designed  a 
picture  sixty-eight  feet  long,  and  Peter  Brueghel 
— known  familiarly  as  "  Hell-fire  Brueghel  " — 

225 

16— (1389) 


ANNO  DOMINI 

filled  the  woods  and  forests  with  little  devils. 
Brueghel's  little  devils  were  but  dolls  in  another 
form.  Is  it  not  time  that  the  sawdust  should  be 
raked  out,  and  that  we  should  take  account  of  the 
angels  ?  I  read  in  the  old  Book  that  as  he  went 
on  his  way,  the  angels  of  God  met  him — and  I 
think  of  Claude,  at  the  Pass  of  the  Simplon,  in 
sight  of  Monte  Rosa. 

And  he  was  left  alone,  and  there  wrestled  a  man 
with  him  until  the  breaking  of  the  day. 

And  he  said,  Let  me  go,  for  the  day  breaketh. 
And  he  said,  I  will  not  let  thee  go,  except  thou 
bless  me.  And  he  said  unto  him,  What  is  thy 
name  ?  And  he  said,  Claude. 

And  Claude  asked  him,  and  said,  tell  me  I  pray 
thee  thy  name.  And  he  said,  Wherefore  is  it  that 
thou  dost  ask  after  my  name  ?  And  he  blessed 
him  there. 

Who  was  this  Messenger  which  met  the  young 
painter,  at  sunrise,  on  his  way  to  Italy — as  the 
shepherd-chieftain  had  been  met  on  his  way  to 
Edom — and  the  tent-maker  of  Tarsus  on  the  road 
to  Damascus  ?  In  what  sense  can  a  man  be  said 
to  wrestle  with  God  and  prevail  ?  Is  it  not 
written  in  the  Liber  Veritatis  ?  O  that  weary 
journey  over  Alsatian  fields  !  O  that  climbing  of 
the  Alps  !  Child,  child,  hungry  and  footsore,  where 
art  thou  leading  us  ?  O  serene  glory  of  the  eternal 

226 


ON  THE  ROAD 

hills  !  O  first  sight  of  the  Italian  plains  !  Claude, 
Claude,  what  if  we  follow  thee  ?  New  splendours 
upon  our  path.  The  face  of  Aurora  growing 
brighter,  until,  behold,  a  sunrise  !  Diana  stooping 
no  more  to  kiss  Endymion — but  the  moon  fringing 
the  dark  forests  with  her  silvery  light.  Apollo  no 
more  in  his  chariot — but  a  blaze  of  sunshine  in 
the  meridian  sky.  Ceres  no  more  garlanded  and 
drawn  by  oxen — but  the  oxen  plowing  the  fields, 
or  bearing  the  harvest  home. 

I  have  reserved  until  now  the  question  of  the 
relation  in  which  the  Art  of  our  own  country 
stands  to  that  of  the  Renascence.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  a  few  references  to  contemporary  events 
in  England,  and  one  or  two  incursions  from 
Germany  and  France,  the  story  of  the  Renascence 
is  the  story  of  Italian  painting.  Italy  had  come 
into  the  heritage  of  Greece,  and  in  the  time  of 
Michael  Angelo,  Rome  was  the  Art  studio  and 
picture  gallery  of  the  world.  The  Louvre,  at  first 
a  royal  palace,  then  a  prison,  then  once  more  a 
royal  palace,  had  not  yet  become  a  "  house  beauti- 
ful "  for  the  people.  The  Escurial — monastery 
mausoleum,  church,  palace,  library,  museum,  with 
its  hundred  and  twenty  miles  of  wall  space,  had 
not  been  built.  The  Hague  was  the  finest  village 
in  Europe,  but  it  contained  no  treasury  of  Art. 
Munich  had  no  Pinacotek — Dresden  had  no 

227 


ANNO  DOMINI 

Madonna  di  San  Sisto — London  had  no  National 
Gallery.  And  yet  the  Renascence  had  stirred 
Europe  to  its  heart's  core.  The  flood  tide  of  Art 
had  reached  France,  and  Spain,  and  Flanders,  and 
Germany  and  England.  Is  it  strange  that  as,  at 
the  Awakening, 

The  Avon  to  the  Severn  ran, 
The  Severn  to  the  sea — 

— so,  during  the  Decadence,  every  river  flowed 
towards  Rome  ?  Of  course  the  Moselle  did — 
Claude  found  that  out,  as  we  have  already  seen. 
It  may  seem  to  lose  itself  at  Coblentz,  but  if  you 
watch  carefully  from  Ehrenbreitstein  at  the  other 
side  you  will  see  a  strange  sight — two  rivers  in 
the  same  channel  not  mingling  their  waters.  The 
runaway  lad  with  his  knapsack  over  his  shoulder 
observes  the  effect,  and  passes  on — to  Rome  ! 
Then  the  Seine — the  silvery  Seine,  at  Caudebec 
between  Evreux  and  Rouen — fringed  with  tall 
poplars  which  stand  on  guard  like  an  army  of 
spearmen  and  are  reflected  in  its  bright  surface  as 
in  a  great  mirror  which  turns  the  whole  world 
upside  down — there  the  two  Poussins,  Nicholas 
and  Caspar,  meet  and  clasp  hands,  presently  to 
find  themselves — in  Rome  !  At  Cologne,  Rubens 
looks  out  upon  the  Rhine,  and  yellow  as  it  is,  it 
is  not  yellow  enough,  he  must  seek  the  still  yel- 
lower Tiber — at  Rome  !  Velasquez  and  Murillo, 

228 


THE  AVON  AGAIN 

at  Seville,  have  only  to  sail  down  the  Guadal- 
quiver,  and  round  by  the  Pillars  of  Hercules,  and 
there  is  the  blue  Mediterranean,  with  Etna  and 
Vesuvius  flinging  their  dark  incense — if  the  wind 
sets  from  the  south — towards  Rome  !  Even  the 
painter  of  "drolleries,"  Brueghel,  escapes  from  the 
network  of  dykes,  which  encompass  his  Dutch 
home,  and  not  being  drowned  in  the  Zuyder  Zee, 
takes  his  little  devils — to  Rome  !  But  the  Avon  ? 
How  is  it  that — 

The  Avon  to  the  Severn  ran, 
The  Severn  to  the  sea — 

— and  yet  our  William  Shakespeare  never  found 
his  way  to  the  city  of  the  Caesars. 

Is  it  because  Shakespeare  was  not  a  painter, 
but  a  poet  ?  That  is  precisely  the  point  to  which 
I  am  leading.  Every  great  School  of  Art  has  come 
with  its  singers.  The  Parthenon  was  built  to  the 
music  of  the  Greek  Dramatists.  The  Laocoon  was 
rhythmic  with  the  verse  of  Virgil.  The  mosaics  of 
the  Basilicas  were  the  response  of  Art  to  the  songs 
of  the  Church,  emancipated  from  the  darkness  of 
the  catacombs.  And  when  the  tesserae  of  the 
mosaics  were  found  to  be  only  bits  of  dead  stone, 
Dante — like  another  Orpheus — breathed  into  them 
the  breath  of  life,  and  they  became  the  living 
frescoes  of  the  Awakening. 

229 


ANNO  DOMINI 

What  gift  then  did  Shakespeare,  bring  to  Art  ? 
He  was  the  contemporary  of  Tasso,  the  poet  of 
the  Decadence.  Shakespeare  was  the  younger  of 
the  two  by  twenty  years,  and  must  have  known 
something  of  the  poetry  of  the  Italian — which  was 
the  delight  of  the  English  Court — though  Tasso 
could  have  known  little  or  nothing  of  the  English- 
man and  the  new  movement.  La  Gerusalemme 
Liberata  is  classic,  is  romantic,  is  instinct  with 
the  spirit  of  chivalry  and  unquestioning  belief. 
It  is  the  story  of  the  Crusades.  Godfrey  of  Bouil- 
lon is  besieging  the  Holy  city,  held  by  the  Saracens. 
Armida,  the  heroine,  is  a  witch — not  an  ugly  old 
witch  like  the  weird  sisters  in  Macbeth,  but  beau- 
tiful as  Lilith,  in  Rossetti's  still  more  weird  bal- 
lad "  Eden  Bower."  Lilith  is  the  snake  wife  of 
Adam  before  Eve  was  created. 

(Eden  bowels  in  flower.) 
Not  a  drop  of  her  blood  was  human, 
But  she  was  made  like  a  soft  sweet  woman. 

Ah — what  curious  questions  Tasso  raises — and 
Rosetti  plays  with,  as  if  they  were  the  strings  of 
a  musical  instrument  —  questions  which  never 
troubled  Shakespeare.  Who  made  Lilith  ?  Was  it 
fair  to  create  Eve  afterwards — even  if  Lilith  was 
that  "  old  serpent  "  of  whom  Paul  speaks.  Why 
is  Armida  sent  by  the  Spirit  of  Evil  to  sow  dis- 
cord in  the  camp  of  the  Crusaders,  and  to  allure 

230 


PLATE    XXXIX.       FROM    THE    PAINTING    IN 
THE    NATIONAL    POR1RA1T    GALLERY 


SINGING  ART  TO  SLEEP 

them  from  their  allegiance  to  Christ,  by  sensual 
delights  in  an  enchanted  paradise?  But  the  in- 
fernal plot  fails.  Armida  is  herself  converted  by 
a  Christian  knight — 

(0  the  bower  and  the  hour) 
As  in  the  cool  of  the  day  God  shall  walk 
In  the  garden. 

All  the  graces  of  tender  sentiment  and  high 
aspiration,  are  lavished  on  this  song  of  the  Deca- 
dence. There  is  ineffable  sweetness  in  its  rythmic 
beat,  running  through  sixteen  thousand  verses, 
everyone  rhyming  with  a,  or  ey  or  i,  or  o.  To  scan 
it  is  like  watching  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  breast  of 
a  beautiful  woman,  whose  slumber  is  not  disturbed 
by  evil  dreams.  The  Poet  of  the  Decadence  sang 
Art  to  sleep. 

But  while  Tasso  was  singing  Art  to  sleep,  in 
Italy,  Shakespeare,  in  England  was  rousing  it  to 
fresh  conquests.  The  glory  of  Shakespeare  is  not 
that  he  destroyed  old  forms,  but  that  he  created 
new.  The  idols  had  been  shattered  before  he 
came  upon  the  scene.  The  gods  had  disappeared  ; 
the  saints  had  been  discredited.  To  the  vision  of 
the  artist  there  lay  open  only  the  streets  of  the 
city — where  men  trafficked  ;  or  the  fields — where 
they  toiled  for  their  daily  bread  ;  or  the  narrow 
walls  of  their  homes — where  life  seemed  dull  and 
common,  or  enlivened  only  by  the  petty  excite- 


ANNO  DOMINI 

ment  of  tempers  rubbing  against  each  other. 
What  can  Art  do  with  these  things  ?  Shakes- 
peare gives  the  answer.  He  seeks  no  intervention 
of  the  gods — the  common  passions  of  humanity 
are  enough  for  him.  His  sacrifices  are  not  such 
as  are  made  by  priests  upon  altars — they  are  the 
sacrifices  of  love  and  devotion,  made  on  the  hearth 
stone.  His  retributions  are  not  the  devices  of  an 
infernal  senate — they  are  the  natural  results  of 
evil  actions. 

Lo  !    two  babes  for  Eve  and  for  Adam ! 

(And  0,  the  bower  and  the  hour.) 
The  first  is  Cain,  the  second  is  Abel. 

That  is  the  drama  of  life  on  which  Shakespeare 
raises  the  curtain.  Comedy  or  Tragedy — Tragedy 
or  Comedy — always  with  a  little  Landscape  :— 

The  soul  of  one  shall  be  made  thy  brother. 

(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 
Thy  tongue  shall  lap  the  blood  of  the  other. 

Tasso's  Armida  and  Rosetti's  Lilith  are  im- 
aginary— so  also  are  Shakespeare's  Gertrude  and 
Lady  Macbeth.  But  Lilith  and  Armida  are  not 
variants  of  Nature— they  never  existed.  How  then 
shall  we  know  their  true  colours  ?  When  we 
paint  the  devil  we  make  him  black.  The  Ethi- 
opians paint  him  white.  Shakespeare  seems  to 
have  discovered  that  Art  is  the  interpreter  of 
Nature,  and  is  therefore  sworn  to  truth. 

232 


THE  REVEILLE 

I  am  not  attributing  this  discovery  altogether 
to  Shakespeare.  In  a  forward  movement  it  is 
impossible  sometimes  to  discriminate  between 
primal  and  secondary  forces.  The  reveille  is 
sounded  in  the  camp  before  the  battle — and  the 
soldier  awakes.  He  marches  at  early  dawn  with 
other  units,  and  we  cannot  apportion  between  the 
commander  in  chief,  and  the  colonel  of  his  regi- 
ment, and  his  comrades,  the  exact  responsibility 
of  each  step  he  takes.  It  is  the  same  with  great 
things  and  small.  Jupiter  carries  his  sat  elites 
safely  round  the  sun,  and  yet  they  move  in  the 
great  circle  in  which  he  moves,  and  by  the  same 
law.  So,  the  lost  souls  compared  by  Dante  to  a 
flock  of  sheep — where  what  one  does  the  others 
do,  simple  and  quiet,  and  the  reason  know  not — 
are  yet  driven  by  the  force  which  moves  all  things. 
Who  was  the  commander-in-chief,  is  too  large  a 
question  for  these  pages — but  I  am  quite  sure  that 
the  comrade  who  stands  nearest  to  the  Painter  is 
the  Poet — and  that  it  was  Shaksepeare  who 
sounded  the  reveille. 

My  story  is  ended.  Shakespeare  was  not  one 
of  the  Seven  Angels  of  the  Renascence.  He  was 
the  Messenger  of  the  New  Covenant  of  Art,  made 
with  God  in  the  wilderness,  that  Nature  should 
never  again  be  cast  out.  In  my  lectures  at  the 
Royal  Institution  on  Shakespeare  in  relation  to 

233 


ANNO  DOMINI 

his  Contemporaries  in  Art,  I  have  shown  that  the 
Covenant  is  being  faithfully  kept — at  least  by  the 
English  landscape  painters  of  our  own  day.  This 
forms  the  substance  of  another  volume,— but  I  will 
anticipate  a  page  of  it  for  the  sake  of  illustrating 
the  extreme  divergence  between  the  old  schools 
and  the  new. 

There  are  two  main  lines  on  which  the  evolution 
of  Art  may  proceed.  It  may  proceed  as  in  the 
Renascence  by  the  direct  expression  of  passion — 
through  the  representation  of  human  life  and 
action  ;  or,  as  in  the  modern  schools,  by  the  reflex 
expression  of  passion  through  the  representation 
of  the  world  in  which  we  live.  Let  me  now  paint 
two  pictures  of  the  same  subject — the  renewing 
of  life  with  the  returning  year.  The  first  I  will  call 
"  The  Return  of  Proserpina."  The  second  shall 
be  "  The  Coming  of  Spring."  The  change  from 
Mythology  to  Nature — from  the  Renascence  to 
Modern  Art — is  like  a  transformation  scene  in  a 
pantomime.  The  curtain  rises— Tableau. 

We  see  Proserpina — as  Titian  or  Correggio  might 
have  painted  her — a  beautiful  maiden,  attended 
by  nymphs,  scattering  flowers.  On  the  left  is  her 
mother — the  stately  Ceres — in  garments  of  green, 
which  sweep  across  the  foreground.  In  the  middle 
distance  is  the  grim  figure  of  Pluto  in  his  chariot, 
from  which  Proserpina  has  descended.  He  looks 

234 


EVOLUTION  IN  ART 

at  her  sullenly,  as  though  he  half  repented  of  his 
bargain,  and  meditated  carrying  her  off  again. 
More  distant  still  we  see  Apollo,  pursuing  Aurora 
whose  white  horses  are  scarcely  visible  in  the 
brightness  of  his  coming.  On  the  margin  of  a 
stream  is  bearded  Pan,  fashioning  a  flute  from  the 
reeds — to  the  music  of  which  the  nymphs  shall 
presently  dance. 

Slowly  the  scene  changes.  A  modern  English 
landscape  painter  brings  his  palette  and  brushes. 
There  is  a  tremor  in  the  garments  of  Ceres,  and  lo  ! 
a  field  of  corn,  with  the  breath  of  the  wind  upon  it. 
The  white  horses  of  Aurora  quite  disappear  in  the 
pale  mist  of  morning.  Dazzled  with  the  bright- 
ness of  Apollo's  coming,  we  close  our  eyes  for  a 
moment — when  we  open  them  again,  we  see  the 
sun  rising  beyond  the  distant  hills,  and  instead  of 
his  fiery  steeds  the  patient  cattle  yoked  to  the 
plough.  We  look  for  Pluto  and  his  trident,  and 
behold  !  a  lake — with  a  sail  flapping  idly  in  the 
breeze.  We  look  for  Pan,  and  there  is  nothing  but 
a  shepherd  lad,  crossing  a  brook,  to  help  a  company 
of  girls  who  are  gathering  flowers  for  a  village 
festival.  Even  the  beautiful  Proserpina  we  see 
no  more  ;  for  the  wind  that  bent  the  tender  blades 
of  wheat,  lifted  her  hair  as  it  passed,  and  before  it 
could  fall  again  on  her  fair  bosom  she  had  become 
a  may-tree.  The  transformation  is  complete. 
Tableau.  The  curtain  falls. 

235 


ANNO  DOMINI 

I  will  leave  it  at  that.  The  curtain  falls.  The 
dynasty  of  the  old  masters  came  to  an  end  with 
the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  we  are 
living  in  the  twentieth.  It  is  a  long  while  since 
the  painters  of  the  Renascence  made  the  world 
splendid  with  their  religious  and  mythological 
pictures.  How  things  have  changed.  I  said  at 
first  that  the  Art  of  the  Renascence  was  subjected 
to  the  strain  of  three  forces — the  orthodox  tradi- 
tions of  the  Catholic  Church — the  passionate 
individualism  of  the  Reformers — and  the  recoil 
towards  paganism  of  those  who  rejected  the  old 
faith  without  making  peace  with  the  new.  Of  all 
these  forces  I  have  taken  account.  Let  me  now 
define  in  a  very  few  words,  the  course,  and  the 
issue,  of  the  conflict — as  it  affects  Art. 

(1)  The  only  thing  that  has  passed  through  the 
ordeal  unscathed,  is  the  Likeness  of  Christ.  What- 
ever may  have  become  of  the  saints  or  the  im- 
mortals, Christ  has  never  been  driven  out  of  the 
studio  of  the  Artist.  The  Seven  Angels  of  the 
Renascence  have  made  that  sure  forever.  Look 
at  the  Christ  of  the  Decadence,  and  compare  it 
with  the  Christ  of  the  Catacombs,  the  Christ  of 
the  Basilicas,  the  Christ  of  the  Awakening,  the 
Christ  of  Michael  Angelo,  of  Da  Vinci,  of  Titian, 
of  Raphael,  of  Correggio.  It  will  be  seen  that  it  is 
always  the  same  Christ. 

236 


PLATE    XL.       THE   CHRIST    OF    THE    DECADENCE 

FROM  THE  PAINTING  BY  VELASQUEZ  IN 
THE  MUSEUM  OF  THE  PRADO,   MADRID 


THE  ETHICS  OF  AESTHETICS 

(2)  If  it  is  true  that,  at  the  Reformation,  Greece 
rose  from  the  dead  with  the  New  Testament  in 
her  hand  —  it  is  true  also  that  with  the  Renas- 
cence all  the  loveliest  of  the  myths  of  Greece  and 
Rome  came  to  life  again — myths  which  had  edu- 
cated the  world  before  the  New  Testament  was 
written.     They  came  to  life  with  the  finding  of  the 
antique  statues,  and  the  revival  of  Letters.     The 
beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century  marked  the 
very  flood- tide  of  pagan  sentiment.     But  pagan- 
ism in  Art  must  not  be  confounded  with  paganism 
in  Religion.     These  myths,  known   and   acknow- 
ledged to  be  myths,  carry  no  taint  of  superstition, 
nor  do  they  traverse  the  symbols  of  our  Faith,  nor 
are    they   misleading — any    more    than    Milton's 
Comus  is  misleading,  or  Spenser's  Fairy  Queen, 
or    Tennyson's    Idylls    of    the    King.     Whatever 
may  be  the  effect  of  the  variableness  of  dogmatic 
teaching  upon  religion  the  ethics  of  aesthetics  are 
always  Divine. 

(3)  Finally  it  is  discovered  that  the   Paradise 
of  Art  is  not  an  appanage  of  the  immortals  or  of 
the  saints.     After  all,  poor  little  Proserpina  is  only 
an  English  girl  who  has  married  a  Viceroy  and 
lives  the  half  of  every  year  in  India,  coming  home 
on  a  visit  to  her  mother,  when  the  flowers  are  at 
their  loveliest  in  the  old  garden.     It  is  that  which 
entitles  her  to  a  place  in  Art.     And  Saint  Cecilia  ? 

237 


ANNO  DOMINI 

She  also  is  a  lovely  woman,  who  sings  divinely— 
Raphael  was  quite  right  in  making  the  angels 
listen.  For  Art  is  the  visible  record  of  our  lives— 
the  re-incarnation  of  our  souls.  Not  only  does  it 
reveal  what  we  are — it  makes  us  what  we  are.  As 
surely  as  the  weavers  of  Arras  wove  Raphael's 
designs  into  the  tapestry  of  the  Sistine  Chapel— 
so  surely  Art  is  still  weaving — weaving — weaving 
into  the  warp  and  woof  of  our  lives  some  pattern. 
What  pattern  is  Art  weaving  for  us  ?  I  see  in  it 
silken  threads,  blue  as  the  azure  of  the  heavens  ; 
cruel  threads,  crimson  with  the  blood  of  many 
battle  fields  ;  threads  golden  with  the  promise  of 
the  future.  I  suppose  the  Creator  can  be  ap- 
proached through  a  may-tree,  or  a  corn  field,  or 
a  sunrise,  as  sincerely  as  through  Proserpina,  or 
Ceres,  or  Aurora.  But  of  the  Future  of  Art  we 
know  nothing— except  that  the  constellation  now- 
rising  will  not  be  the  same  as  the  one  that  is 
setting — that  it  is  Anno  Domini — and  that  the 
Seventh  Angel  is  with  us  still. 


THE    END 


14  DAY  USE 

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